Arthur Goes Sixth I: The Madness of Queen George
by Dead Composer
Summary: As Arthur and the gang enter the world of middle school, George finds that his past lives have caught up with him...
1. The Story So Far

**Arthur Goes Sixth I: The Madness of Queen George**

**INTRODUCTION**

The "Arthur Goes Sixth" series continues the story from "Arthur Goes Fourth" and "Arthur Goes Fifth". Arthur and his friends are starting their first year at Woodlake Middle School in Elwood City. Conveniently, the sixth grade classes were recently moved from Lakewood to Woodlake, which explains why Prunella, Brain (who skipped a grade), Molly, and Rattles were able to attend Lakewood in "Arthur Goes Fifth" and are now middle-schoolers with the others. Arthur and the gang will have a new teacher and new classmates, whose identities will gradually be revealed. For the benefit of those readers who haven't read "Fourth" and "Fifth" due to lack of time, laziness, or having a life, here are the characters who will figure most in the "Sixth" series, along with summaries of what happened to them in the earlier stories.

_Arthur_

Our favorite aardvark boy is still his same old jolly self. (You'd think that since it's his show, he'd have the lion's share of "screen" time. However, I've made an effort to use all the characters equally.) Arthur counts among his accomplishments: Serving as student body president during his fifth-grade year, participating in a jazz quartet, and being briefly turned into a cat.

_D.W._

Our favorite whiny brat…er, aardvark girl has had many adventures, including saving the world from an evil extradimensional Pomeranian, accidentally turning into a unicorn, and taking lessons on misbehavior from Rattles. (Oh, and there was the whole affair about the son of D.W. and Brain visiting from the future, the full implications of which I have yet to explore.)

_Nadine_

Early in the "Fourth" series, a girl who looked exactly like D.W.'s imaginary friend Nadine (even down to the tail) was introduced to her kindergarten. Stupefied at first, D.W. soon befriended the girl. (Thanks to the magic of time travel, the _real_ Nadine was able to serve as the inspiration for the _imaginary_ Nadine. Just read it, OK?) Nadine's mother is Maria Harris, who works at a jewelry shop.

_The Reads_

A new Read was born during the summer, Wilbur Read, weight 10 lb. 6 oz. He is a healthy, irresistibly adorable baby aardvark boy. The Read house is now a smaller and more cramped place, partly due to the fact that Grandpa Dave, afflicted with Alzheimer's disease, has moved into the guest bedroom.

_The Tibble Twins_

Tommy and Timmy, since the death of their grandmother from a heart attack, have been raised by their mother Tanya, giving her someone else (besides herself) to spend her lavish divorce settlement on.

_Buster and Bitzi_

Absent for much of the "Fourth" series after Bitzi married Harry Mills and moved to Chicago, Buster returned to Elwood City just in time for the "Fifth" series. It didn't take long for him to be abducted by an amorous alien girl and spirited away to the planet Yordil. (The Yordilians, it turned out, had a unique problem—nearly all their males were wiped out in a biological disaster. The typical Yordilian female, therefore, will stop at nothing to get her man.) His friends managed to rescue him, but complications arose in his life once again when Bitzi adopted Petula, a baby girl with magical powers. A baby girl whom, for reasons I won't go into here, the Yordilians wanted _dead_. And they would have killed her if not for the interference of those meddling kids, who had a little help from Doctor Who in an unprecedented crossover. Things went from bad to horrible when Harry abandoned Bitzi, Buster, and Petula at the height of the Yordilian invasion of Earth, an act which prompted Bitzi to demand a divorce. The divorce was eventually granted, and Harry went his way. Now Bitzi is back on the dating scene, while Buster, for his part, has developed an irrational phobia of girls and all things girl-like.

_Principal Haney_

Mr. Haney, after being shot three times in the chest (see note on Prunella below) and receiving an artificial heart transplant from alien surgeons, departed Elwood City in the interest of his own safety. His replacement is James Polk, a good friend of Francine's. (There were hints of a possible romantic relationship between Mr. Haney and Bitzi Baxter. We'll see where that goes.)

_Francine_

I like Francine so much, I decided to put her through the wringer. Early in the "Fourth" series, she died. While her corpse was still warm, Brain restored her to life through deft use of time travel. Her troubles were not yet over, as she became an unwilling participant in a body-switching experiment that left her in Sue Ellen's shoes. When she finally regained her own body, she discovered that Sue Ellen was still there, leaving her with _two_ personalities and _two_ sets of life memories in _one_ head. (Confused yet?) Later, she engaged in a romantic relationship with Arthur that ended when he cheated with another girl, and held a grudge against the boy for an entire summer. Near the end of the "Fifth" series, she stowed away in a taxicab in which Catherine and her boyfriend, Mitch, were eloping. Ending up in a seedy neighborhood, she would have fallen victim to a kidnapper if not for the intervention of James Polk, a devout Christian. His influence led Francine into a brief flirtation with Christianity.

_Muffy_

Muffy's snobbishness was toned down somewhat by her friendship with Van Cooper, a classmate whose lawyer father was a bitter enemy of Ed Crosswire. (Cue Tchaikovsky's _Romeo and Juliet Fantasy Overture…_) Her parents placed her in a private school headed by the infamous Dr. Pryce-Jones, but she rebelled, and even ran away for several weeks. Over time the Crosswire fortune was whittled down, particularly during a period when a magical influence compelled Ed to always tell the truth. They moved out of their mansion and into a condo, replaced their limo with a Mitsubishi, and fired Bailey, who went on to become a kinetic artist. After all that, there was yet more character development for Muffy to endure. Present with George at the scene of a murder committed by aliens, she was swept off to the planet Orelob with her family and the Nordgrens as part of an interplanetary Witness Protection Program. Among the trinkets she acquired during her jaunt in outer space was an optical fiber dress that displayed her face in real time on the front. This unusual item caught the attention of Gelt, a heartless financier, who demanded the dress in exchange for the loan he had offered to put Crosswire Motors back on its feet. Ed, needing the money but unwilling to break his daughter's heart, faked an attack on Muffy and stole the dress from her back. With Fern's help, she managed to expose Ed as the perpetrator and rescue the dress from Gelt's clutches. Van's father, outraged at what Mr. Crosswire had done to Muffy, came to her aid with a restraining order against him. Cut off from her parents, Muffy went to stay with Wyatt Holberg, a young gay friend, and his two mommies. The Crosswires are now separated, and Muffy lives with her mother and baby brother Tyson.

_Binky_

Binky began to smarten up in fourth grade. He joined the cast of _New Moo Revue_, a revived Mary Moo Cow series, pirouetting about in a costume as new character Mini Moo. The Tough Customers mercilessly teased him about this career move, but, in the fashion of a true Arthur character, Binky stood his ground. In later adventures, he was treated to a glimpse of what his life would be like if he had been born a girl, and became involved romantically with a not-so-nice parallel universe version of Sue Ellen.

_Brain_

The first shock to Brain's peaceful, ordered existence came in the form of Jason, his son from the future (by D.W.!). The second was the introduction of Tegan, the older sister he had forgotten. Tegan had the superhuman ability to merge mentally with other people, implant memories, and even alter a person's identity. Because of her powers, she was locked away from human knowledge with a number of other similarly gifted individuals, collectively known as the Brainchildren. The third shock was Brain's discovery that _he_ was a Brainchild, endowed with the power to erase the memories of others. His efforts to avoid being forcibly inducted into a Brainchild liberation army led to an explosive confrontation and a crossover with _The Simpsons_.

_Sue Ellen_

Turns out Buster was right all along—Sue Ellen and her parents are really aliens! The Armstrongs are, in fact, agents from the planet Yordil, fortunate enough to be living on Earth during the crisis that killed nearly all of the planet's men. Sue Ellen doesn't learn this fact until halfway through "Fifth", having been adopted by her teacher, Mrs. Krantz, under the mistaken belief that her parents were dead. Very much alive, Mr. and Mrs. Armstrong masterminded the Yordilian invasion of Earth which they hoped would solve their planet's all-the-good-men-are-gone problem. Sue Ellen, shocked by what her parents were attempting, helped Doctor Who to thwart the invasion. In a nearby parallel universe, however, lived a version of Sue Ellen who was _proud_ of her Yordilian heritage and _hated_ the Doctor, blaming him for the death of April Murphy, a future Sue Ellen who had traveled into the past and changed her identity. A shift in quantum realities transported this "anti-Sue" from an Earth under Yordilian control to "our" Earth, where the Yordilians had been defeated. Once here, she resumed her romance with Binky and searched for an escape route back to the reality she knew. Eventually a being called the Trickster (borrowed from _The Sarah Jane Adventures_) offered to take her home, on the condition that she choose one of her friends to die. She chose…

_Fern_

Sue Ellen is thankfully back to normal, but Fern is another story entirely. The Fern you knew is dead, accidentally struck and killed by James Polk's car. The Fern of the story to come is her extradimensional duplicate, having arrived from a world where the Yordilians rule and her parents were executed for taking part in a resistance movement. This Fern views her new parents as empty copies of her old parents, and harbors resentment towards Brain, who made it impossible for her to return to her home dimension. (Brain, ultimately, had no choice, because the Trickster's dimension-hopping device had the unfortunate side effect of immediately _killing_ the duplicate of anyone who used it.) So great is her resentment that it almost rivals the immense _crush_ she has on the boy…

_Prunella_

No one has had it harder than poor Prunella. She's been vaporized, turned into a boy, hit by a bus, abandoned on a lonely highway, subjected to alien mind control, forced to shoot the principal…and that's just the stuff she _remembers_. At one point, due to short-term memory impairment, she would wake up every morning only to forget everything that had happened the previous day. Add on top of that her eternally unrequited love for Binky, and you've got yourself a sad, sad rat.

_George_

I admit, I couldn't find much for George to do. He helped Fern unmask a ghost, he exposed an alien posing as a psychiatrist, he visited another planet with his girlfriend, Muffy…where to go from there? Buckingham Palace, naturally.

_Beatrice "Beat" Simon (OC)_

Beat is one of the gang's classmates, a British girl whose intelligence rivals the Brain's. She is half rabbit and half aardvark, and has a very attractive figure as a result of her premature puberty.

_Van Cooper (OC) and Odette Cooper (OC)_

Rejoice, Van fans! The Coopers moved back to Elwood City during the summer, so they'll be part of the story as before. For the uninitiated, Van is a wheelchair-bound duck boy from a family with six children, all of them ducks but one. His most prominently featured sibling is teenager Odette, a swan girl who loves ballet. (No, she _wasn't_ adopted.) Van and Muffy are close friends, despite their fathers' mutual hatred; Muffy once even went so far as to declare Van an "honorary girl". Odette, despite being older, often joins the Arthur gang in their adventures. Early in the "Fourth" series she was kidnapped by polygamists, an experience from which she has yet to fully recover.

_Wyatt Holberg (OC)_

Wyatt was the first openly gay character to be introduced in the series. In his first appearance, he competed with Fern for a voice role in _New Moo Revue_. Much later, as Fern was quitting the show, she asked Wyatt to take her place. On this occasion he met Binky and revealed his orientation. Later still, with a restraining order keeping her father away, Muffy chose to stay at Wyatt's house and met his two mothers, both artists. Muffy and Wyatt became fast friends and shopping buddies, and their comradeship remains strong to this day.

Next chapter: The story begins!


	2. Nightmare at Buckingham Palace

The palace guard, clad in a well-pressed red jacket and a tall black hat, was an object of intense curiosity for Beat, George, and George's little sister, Salma.

"Whattya think he's hiding under that hat?" said Salma, a.k.a. Sal.

"A handsome pair of rabbit ears, I'll wager," said Beat.

"Antlers," said George. "Antlers, for sure."

The guard, steadfast and stoic, hardly noticed the presence of the children as they bantered back and forth.

"Five euros says you're wrong," said Beat teasingly.

"Ten euros says you're _both_ wrong," Sal chimed in.

"What do _you_ think's in his hat?" George snapped at her.

"A leprechaun," replied Sal with confidence.

"This is England, not Ireland," Beat reminded her.

"A leprechaun with bad teeth," was Sal's next guess.

"Let's settle this once and for all," said Beat. Turning to face the sentry, she said, "Pardon me, kind sir, but would you be so kind as to remove your hat?"

He stared forward, not giving her so much as a glance.

"Take off your hat! Take off your hat!" Sal began to chant.

The guard's face suddenly contorted with rage. "Ruddy American brats!" he snarled, drawing his cutlass from its holster. "I'll slice you to ribbons, I will!"

Before George had a chance to be afraid, the soldier swung downward twice with his sword, quickly and efficiently lopping off the boy's antlers. "My manhood!" he cried in horror.

"Muwahahahaha!" bellowed the guard, his cutlass raised skyward for a killing stroke…

…and then George woke up.

"Help! Help!" he shouted, his arms thrashing against the blanket.

Into his bedroom crept nearly-nine-year-old Sal, dressed in pajamas, her eyes bleary from sleep. "What's the matter, Georgie?" she asked.

"Huh?" said George, coming down from his frantic state. "Uh, nothing's the matter," he told the moose girl. "I'm perfectly fine. Go back to bed."

"But I heard you yell for help," Sal insisted.

"Oh," said George. Thinking quickly, he added, "I thought maybe _you_ needed help. So I yelled, 'Sal! Do you need help?'"

"I'm not dumb, ya know," said his little sister. "Tomorrow I'll be a fourth grader, and you know what _that_ means."

"What does it mean?"

"It means _I'll_ be the one protecting the world from ghosts and witches and aliens," said Sal proudly.

"I'm sure I'll get to do plenty of that in middle school," said George.

"Nuh-uh," said Sal mockingly. "You'll be the smallest kid in the whole school. The bullies won't even bother with you—they'll send the kids _they_ beat up to beat _you_ up."

"I'll deal with that when the time comes," said George maturely.

"How?" Sal wanted to know.

_The same way I deal with it now_, George said to himself. _Denial._

"Go back to bed, Sal," he ordered.

* * *

To be continued


	3. The Morning of the First Day

The next morning was a hubbub of activity as the kids of Elwood City prepared for the first day of the school year, each one in his or her own way (except for Tommy and Timmy Tibble, who did everything more or less exactly the same).

_Muffy_

Muffy scowled worriedly. The pink satin dress she had purchased in April seemed much tighter around her waist than she remembered. "There's no doubt about it, Mom," she said, plucking vainly at the fabric. "I put on some weight over the summer. Oh, why must I have a best friend who likes ice cream so much?"

Mrs. Crosswire gave her daughter a comforting pat on the back. "It's not unusual for girls your age to fill out a bit," she said wisely.

"But Mom," Muffy protested, "I'm not just any girl my age. I'm _me_. And this isn't just any day, it's the first day of middle school. I'll be surrounded by strange kids, and I don't want their first impression of me to be, 'Call air traffic control, it's a low-flying blimp!'"

_Alan_

"Have a great day at your new school, son," said Alan's father proudly.

"I can't believe you're already in seventh grade," Alan's mother gushed. "The years just fly by, especially the ones that were erased from my memory."

"Yeah, I still wonder who was responsible for that," said Alan innocently. "By the way, Mom, if I come back without any homework tonight, would you mind writing some for me?"

"Anything for my boy," said Mrs. Powers sweetly.

_Fern_

Mrs. Walters gave her daughter a final, earnest hug before seeing her through the door. "Every day you're with us is a blessing from God," she said lovingly. "You're our little miracle girl." She caressed Fern's cheek with her moist lips.

"I'll miss you, Mom," said the poodle girl facetiously, "but I'll always have your slobber to remember you by."

"Be careful, honey," her mother urged. "Look both ways before crossing. Don't accept rides from strangers. If I lose you again, I'll never recover."

Fern sighed bitterly. "You worry about me too much. My _real_ parents let me detonate explosives."

_Arthur_

In preparation for the coming school year, Arthur's parents had bought him a new yellow sweater, a size or two larger than the similar sweater he had worn in fifth grade. He yanked it over his head and arms, and wandered into the living room, where he noticed that D.W. was poring intensely over a Zutzut book.

"Studying hard?" he idly asked his sister.

She looked up from the couch. "Mom explained it all to me," she said seriously. "By the time I finish elementary school, you'll already be in high school. By the time I make it to high school, you'll already be in college. By the time I go to college, you'll already be graduated. So, the only way I can ever go to the same school as you again, is to skip a grade."

Arthur eyed her warily. "That book looks really tough," he remarked. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather watch some TV?"

_Prunella_

"Mornin', Prunie," said Rubella, fresh from exercising on the treadmill in the basement. "What does your horoscope say?"

Prunella glanced up at her, then down at the newspaper again. "Don't buy anything," she recited. "Save up your money. Don't take any chances. Don't even leave home if you can avoid it."

Her older sister leaned over the kitchen table. Scrutinizing the paper, she said, "You're looking at the wrong section. That's the economic forecast."

_George_

He tiptoed reverently through the White Drawing Room, admiring the lavish chandeliers, the arched ceiling, and the ornate furniture. _This place is unbelievably huge_, he thought. _And it's all so beautiful. I wish my house was like this. I wish I could stay here forever._

A doorway led him into what appeared to be a washroom with shining marble floors. A full-length mirror with an elegantly carved frame stood in one of the corners. George stepped closer, hoping to visualize himself as a member of the royal family, one of the few privileged to dwell in luxury.

He gasped, taken aback. The person who stared back at him from the tall mirror _was_ a member of the royal family. A_ princess_.

He screamed, awoke, and pulled his nose out of the bowl of oatmeal.

"You all right, George?" asked his mother.

He found himself at the breakfast table, Sal across from him. "Yeah, fine," he blurted out, wiping his face with a napkin.

"Another Buckingham Palace nightmare?"

The moose boy nodded sheepishly.

Mrs. Nordgren rubbed the short hair between his antlers. "It's been more than two weeks now," she said with concern. "What happened to you in London? What could've scared you so badly?"

George shrugged. "No idea."

* * *

To be continued


	4. Binky for the Defense

They gathered at the atrium in the center of Woodlake Middle School's main floor, the band of kids who had been together since fourth grade. "Here we are," said Arthur, looking about at the newly painted red lockers, clean laminate flooring, and the most exciting feature of their new school, _vending machines_.

"Lucky me," said Buster, drooling at the cookies and Ding Dongs on display. "My mom just raised my allowance."

"You know what I've heard about this school?" Van spoke up. "It's all one big clique."

Binky shrugged. "That's better than a lot of _little_ cliques."

"Be thankful for your lovely, remodeled school," said Fern darkly. "In _my_ dimension, the Yordies converted the middle school into a makeshift prison for men who refused to take Yordie wives."

"Well, bully for the bloody Yordies," said Beat, clearly annoyed.

"It's been what, nine months now?" said Alan to Fern. "Who knows, maybe the Resistance has overthrown Yordilian rule by now."

"If they have," said Fern, "it's no thanks to _you_."

"Ho-hum," said George, his hand too small to fully conceal his mouth.

"Rough night?" Sue Ellen asked the moose boy.

"Uh-huh," he said drowsily. "Nightmares."

"Oh, man, that's rough," remarked Buster. "I know how you feel. I have this recurring nightmare where I open the refrigerator and it's totally empty."

"Hey, Francine," said Muffy, turning to her monkey-faced friend, "am I imagining things, or is my nose starting to break out in freckles?"

Francine examined her nose carefully. "I don't see any freckles," she replied. "Your complexion is flawless."

"Oh, thank you," said Muffy with relief. "I'm glad there's someone I can trust to tell me the straight truth about my looks."

_Now you're imagining things_, thought Francine.

As they chatted with each other, a pair of large bulldog boys stopped and gazed curiously at them. "We should be getting to class," said Arthur to the group. "I understand we've all been assigned to the same group."

"Yeah, funny how that keeps happening," said Van.

"Is that her?" said one of the big boys to the other.

"Yeah, that's her," said his companion, nodding.

Sue Ellen, feeling their glare as it rested uncomfortably on her shoulders, turned her head to face them. "Is something the matter?" she inquired.

"Yeah," replied the dumber-looking of the pair. "_You're_ the matter."

"We know who you are," said the other lad threateningly. "We know _what_ you are."

"What _am_ I?" said the cat girl, folding her arms.

"You're one of them," said Dumb Bulldog Boy #1. "An _alien_."

"Your people tried to take over Earth," said Dumb Bulldog Boy #2.

"So what?" said Sue Ellen sharply. "That doesn't make _me_ guilty of anything."

"Who said it did?" said Dumb Bulldog Boy #1.

"_We_ did," said Dumb Bulldog Boy #2.

"Yeah," said Dumb Bulldog Boy #1. "You better watch your back, alien."

Appalled by their threats, Binky stepped forward. "My brothers," he addressed them. "You've got her all wrong. She's on _our_ side."

The two youths gave him a withering look. "We're _not_ your brothers," one of them snapped.

"Just because you have a big fat head, that doesn't give you the right to claim kinship with us," said the other. "It's something you have to _earn_."

Binky hesitated, then went on, "I'm only gonna warn you once, losers—mess with Sue Ellen and you'll face the stony fists of death."

Apparently overpowered by his reasoning, the bulldog boys sauntered off. "How rude!" said Muffy indignantly.

"I've never seen such jerkitude," grumbled Francine.

Sue Ellen patted Binky's arm gently. "Thanks for defending me," she said in a sugary tone.

"_Me?_" said Binky, startled. "Defending _you?_"

* * *

to be continued


	5. Uncultured Much?

While Beat held open the door to room 34 for Van to roll through, Alan engaged her in earnest conversation. "Sixth grade will be slow for someone as smart as you. Have you given any thought lately to advancing a grade?"

Beat grinned in response. "There's more to school than knowing the answers and passing the quizzes, Alan. I _enjoy_ where I'm at."

"Have it your way," said the bear boy with a nod. He hurried away to catch up with Prunella, as Beat went inside to look for an unoccupied desk.

The room, to her delight, was cooled by a window-mounted air conditioner. She counted eleven students, nine of whom she knew well, and two she hadn't seen before. One was a cat girl with dyed black hair that dangled over the left half of her face, the other, a rat boy with unruly hair tied into a small pigtail. She chose to take a seat next to the boy.

"Hello," she said quietly. "What's your name?"

The boy turned his eyes and pointy nose to face her. His gaze promptly dropped to her chest.

"My name's Beatrice," she continued, "but my friends call me Beat."

He continued to stare through her blouse. As her discomfort grew, she began to notice the shabbiness of his attire—the ragged, tight-fitting jeans, the dingy T-shirt, the heavily worn sneakers and frayed laces.

After what seemed like forever, he made eye contact with her again. "Uh, my name's Blake," he said in a dull voice.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Blake," said Beat warmly.

He gestured at her torso. "You got…um, uh…"

"I developed early," she explained to him. "Relax, they're not contagious."

A rather young-looking, well-dressed, non-anthro man assumed a standing position in front of the students. "_Bonjour_," he greeted them. "Good morning, childr_ahn_. My name," he went on, pointing at the slanted lower-case letters on the blackboard, "is Jean-Vincent Farrenc, and I will be your mazzematics teach_err_. I am from ze city of Toulouse in France, a nation zat has given us many great mazzematicians, including Laplace, Fourier, and Poincaré, as well as many excellent cheeses. Zis year we will cov_err_ ze addition and multiplication of fractions, but before we begin, I wish for each one of you to stand at ze head of ze class, and share witt us what you did for ze summer vacation."

Blake leaned over and asked Beat in a rough whisper, "Why does he talk like that?"

"Because he's French," Beat whispered back.

"Then why's he speakin' English?" was Blake's next question.

Glancing at the roll sheet in his hands, Mr. Farrenc announced, "I would like to call Bust_err_ Baxt_err_ to ze head of ze class."

Everyone else giggled while the young rabbit stepped tentatively forward. Keeping his distance from the desks where Muffy and Sue Ellen sat, he arrived at the front, cleared his throat, and stated, "During the summer I traveled with my dad and Los Viajeros to Cape Cod, where we attended a turnip festival. I recorded the whole thing on my video camera and posted it on YouTube, but so far, no hits. I also saw a psychiatrist for help with my fear of girls, as a result of which I'm now afraid of psychiatrists as well. Thank you."

As Buster returned to his desk, the teacher called out, "Fern Walt_errs_, please come to ze head of ze class."

The poodle girl placed herself in front of the blackboard. "This summer I spent most of my time writing poems and burning them," she told the others. "I also burned some poems by Robert Frost and William Carlos Williams. Thank you."

George was summoned next. "My family and the Simon family took a trip to London," he recounted. "We toured Buckingham Palace and the British Museum, and we saw some of the places that were bombed by the Yordilians. It was pretty awful, but still not as bad as World War II, or so they told me. Thank you."

"Tabitta Graves," said Mr. Farrenc.

The cat girl with the drooping bangs strode forward. "My name's Tabitha," she said with a low pitch, "or Tabby for short. The highlight of my summer was going to a Fall Out Boy concert with my friends. We had backstage passes, and I got to meet them up close, and I showed them one of my Pete/Andrew slash fanfics, and it was totally sick. It was the best thing that ever happened to me or _will_ ever happen to me, because, you know, school sucks, and after school there's life, and life sucks even more. Peace out, y'all."

Muffy was called next. "My best friend, Wyatt, and I did a lot of shopping. We didn't really _buy_ all that much stuff. We just looked for stuff we liked, and we pretended we _had_ bought it, and were wearing it, or playing with it, or driving it, or whatever. Wyatt's the nicest boy in the whole world, and I just love him to death, but it's not the usual huggy-kissy kind of love, which I can't have with him anyway because he's gay, but it's more of a red-hot _platonic_ feeling. By the way, don't miss the new _Magic Toolbox_ episode on Friday, because it's about performance art, and Wyatt's family is gonna be featured. Thanks, everybody, for listening."

Once everyone else had spoken, Mr. Farrenc asked Blake to take his turn. The grim-looking rat boy shuffled to the front of the room and stared blankly at the other kids, who waited curiously to hear his words.

They were few. "This summer I hung out with my homies," he drawled. "I don't got nothin' else to say."

He trudged back to his desk. _Yeesh_, thought Muffy, regarding him with the corner of her eye. _Uncultured much?_

* * *

To be continued


	6. Frakking Yordies

"And zat, my young friends, is how to perform addition witt fractions," said Mr. Farrenc. The school bell rang immediately, as if he had timed his lesson down to the word.

Buster dreaded what would come next, and come it did. "Bust_err_ Baxt_err_ to ze head of ze class," joked Binky, patting the rabbit boy's back.

"You are ze famous Bust_err_ Baxt_err_, no?" said Arthur with a playful grin.

Buster sighed, not knowing which was harder to endure, being the target of ridicule or having to listen to his friends' terrible French accents. _At least the girls are leaving me alone_, he thought.

Fern had no choice, as Tabitha had accosted her at the doorway. "Girl, you and I need to have a face-to-face about this poetry-burning practice of yours," she said with some urgency.

"No, we don't," said Fern flatly.

"Your poems are expressions of your inner self," insisted the cat girl. "When you burn them, you're burning little pieces of _you_."

"They weren't my best work anyway," said Fern, her new classmate pursuing her stubbornly as she walked off. "I was just trying to get through some issues."

"Oh, girl, I know all about that," said Tabitha. "I've got issues too. We've _all_ got issues. But issues are meant to be shared. Would you like to hear about my issues?"

"Not really," replied Fern, her attention caught by the studded leather belt around the girl's waist.

"I worry all the time," Tabitha continued. "I worry whether boys will find me attractive. I worry whether _I'll_ find _boys_ attractive. I worry whether I'll start getting periods early. I worry whether Social Security will still be around when I'm 65."

Fern only nodded. _I worry whether she'll ever shut up._

"What issues are _you_ dealing with?" Tabitha pressed her. "If you're afraid to say it straight out, you can tell me in a poem."

The poodle girl sighed. "If you _have_ to know," she began, "I'm not originally from this dimension. The Fern Walters who lived here is dead, and I'm stuck taking her place, because I can never go back."

Tabitha's eyes softened. "You can never go home again," she said wistfully. "Because home's not just another town or another country, it's another _world_. That's so sad. I can _taste_ the sadness. It's not the sort of sadness you should keep to yourself."

"I _don't_ keep it to myself," said Fern. "I complain loudly every chance I get."

'You know what you should do?" said Tabitha, grabbing her hand. "Rewrite your poems and publish them as a collection. You could give it a title like, _Side by side but so far apart, and other musings of a dimensionally transplanted girl_."

Fern, bewildered, said nothing.

"What do you miss most about your dimension?" Tabitha asked her. "That'd make a good starting point."

"Well," said Fern thoughtfully, "it's basically the same as this one, except the Yordies are in charge."

"Yordies?"

"Yordilians. In my world the Alliance never showed up, because Sue Ellen sided with her own people instead of helping the Doctor to stop the invasion. Now everyone on Earth—everyone I care about—is paying the price."

Tabitha shot her a bemused look, followed by several more bemused looks. Finally she started to chuckle. "That's _it?_" she said incredulously. "That's the home you miss so much? Girl, if I'd escaped from a place like that to a place like this, I'd consider myself lucky."

Her words elicited bitter anger in Fern. "Those frakking Yordies _murdered_ my parents!" exclaimed the outraged poodle. "I had a device in my hand that would let the Resistance strike at them from anywhere, until Alan came along and destroyed it! I can understand why he had to do what he did, but…but that doesn't make it easier to accept."

While she fought back tears, Tabitha began to applaud. "Beautiful, beautiful," she remarked.

* * *

To be continued


	7. Hey Hey, We're the Binkies

The Woodlake Middle School cafeteria offered a wider variety of foods than did its counterpart at Lakewood Elementary. There were three different kinds of mystery meat, an assortment of packaged snacks, and even a salad bar with a transparent sneeze shield. Most of the kids from Group 4 gathered at a table with their trays of food, while Buster, his plate overflowing with lettuce, carrots, and spinach, made his home at another table where several boys were sitting.

Van surveyed the large room from his wheelchair. "It's just like I feared," he said to the others. "Everybody has their little group, even the new kids."

"In case you haven't noticed, Van," Arthur pointed out, "_we've_ got a little group, too."

The duck boy thought for a moment. "No offense to you guys," he spoke up, "but I'm gonna try to make some friends outside of our circle."

"Knock yourself out," said Arthur, and his friend zoomed away.

Francine noticed that Blake, seated next to her, gnawed greedily on his sandwich without so much as looking at those around him. Hoping to break the ice, she said, "So, uh, Blake, what sorta stuff do you like to do?"

The rat boy glanced at her briefly. "I dunno," he muttered.

"You said you like to hang out with your homies," said Francine with a pleasant smile. "What do you do while you're hanging out?"

Blake shrugged. "Uh, we just talk, and listen to music, and if we can find stuff to drink, we drink it. One time we broke into a car."

"_Stuff_ to drink?" Fern chimed in. "You mean _alcoholic_ stuff?"

"Uh-huh," said Blake with a nod.

"My mom says alcohol stunts your growth," said Muffy haughtily.

"That doesn't sound like much of a life," said Beat. "Lazing about, drinking, committing petty crimes…"

"Nothin' else to do," said Blake.

"Where do you live?" Beat asked him.

"Near the old uranium plant," was Blake's reply.

Tabitha's mouth flew open. "You mean Fisk Uranium Processing?" she marveled. "Omigod, when that place closed, _everybody_ moved out."

"And nobody wanted to buy their homes," George added, "because they were afraid of radiation and stuff."

"Me and my homies, we still live there," said Blake.

"Do you live in one of those broken-down houses?" Binky asked him.

"Uh-huh," said the young rat.

"Sounds rough," Sue Ellen remarked. "That neighborhood's as third-world as any third-world country I've ever visited."

"Gets you down, doesn't it?" said Tabitha. "Abject squalor, no opportunities, no future…doesn't it make you want to climb on top of something and scream, and let the whole world know how unhappy you are, and how unfair it all is?"

"Uh, I guess so," said Blake indifferently.

* * *

After lunch the kids went their way, discussing between themselves the quality of the cafeteria food and the characters of their new classmates. "I'm not sure about that Blake kid," said Francine to Muffy. "D'you suppose all that uranium exposure damaged his brain?"

"Could be," said Muffy. "Hey, let's play a game. You'll be Blake, and I'll be myself. Ahem. Hey, Blake, wanna go to the Sugar Bowl with me?"

Francine grinned wickedly. "Uh, I dunno, Muffy. Lemme check with my homies."

Muffy giggled. "Hey, Blake, what did you think of history class?"

"Uh, I dunno," replied Francine. "What's history?"

As the girls laughed and joked, Binky set out to explore the uncharted regions of the school. Noticing a grove of small trees behind the library, he wandered around the corner of the building, only to behold an odd sight—four bulldog boys, each about his age, every one of them smoking a cigarette.

"Ay caramba!" he cried out.

All four of the boys turned, aiming their glares at Binky. "Yeah, that's right," said one. "We're smoking on the school grounds."

"Wanna make something of it?" said another.

"Uh, no, not really," said Binky uneasily. _Four of them, one of me_, he thought. _I'd better take the diplomatic route._

"Hey, I remember you," said the biggest (though not by much) of the boys. "You and your stony fists of death."

"Yeah," said the boy next to him. "You're the alien's boyfriend, aren't you?"

Binky stood rooted to the spot. "No, I'm not," he insisted. "I'm not even her friend, really." _What am I saying? Am I really that much of a coward?_

"If you're not her friend," said a bulldog boy, "that means you can be _our_ friend." He held out a small package. "Cigarette?"

"Uh, no, thanks," said Binky. "I'm trying to quit."

"We should introduce ourselves," said the boy. "I'm Slinky."

"I'm Dinky," said another boy.

"I'm Pinky," said the next one.

"I'm Twinky," said the last.

"And I'm Binky," said Binky.

"Wannabe," said Pinky mockingly.

"So, Binky, if that's _really_ your name," said Slinky, taking a puff, "before we allow you into our brotherhood, we'd like to see a demonstration of loyalty on your part."

"Like what?" said Binky expectantly.

"Like," said Twinky, "beat up the alien."

"_What?_" Binky's jaw seemed to come loose from its joints.

"Or, if you don't have the guts to beat up a girl," said Dinky, "you could humiliate her somehow…only it has to be a _painful_ humiliation."

His brain whirled in his skull. _I'll make something up_, he thought. _The Yordilian death pinch. Yeah, that's it. Who knows, maybe there really is one…_

"What's the matter?" said Pinky with a smirk. "Afraid she'll use the Yordilian death pinch on you?"

"There's no such thing as a Yordilian death pinch, you doofus," Slinky chided him.

An idea coalesced in Binky's mind. _Why, that's brilliant!_ he thought. _I can't believe I thought of that! School really works!_

"Wait a second, dudes," he said cockily. "Why should I be the one to do the dirty work? Why not one of _you?_"

* * *

to be continued


	8. You Are Getting Very Sleepy

George awoke abruptly from a blissful sleep. _No nightmares this time_, he thought. _What a relief_. He looked down at his digital watch. _Oh shoot, I overslept! I'm late for school already!_

As his eyes and brain became more focused, he recalled that he was _already_ at school. _Geez, how long have I been out?_ he wondered. _Hope I'm not late for wood shop._

A yawn began to overtake him, only to be stifled by the sight of an aardvark girl with a wry smile, clutching a roll of toilet paper in her hand. The other end of the roll, as George discovered by glancing upwards, reached into his antlers, around his antlers, and _through_ his antlers.

"What…?" he exclaimed, startled. "You're…you're putting toilet paper on my _head?_"

"Heck no," said the girl smugly. "I'm taking it _off_." A quick look at her hand later, she added, "And carefully rolling it up."

_Girls_, thought George with disgust. _Why do I let them walk all over me? Oh well…someday I'll be married, and the shoe'll be on the other foot._

The strange girl continued to unloop the toilet paper from his antlers as Prunella happened upon the scene. "What do you think you're doing, Laverne?" she snapped, outraged.

"He was like that when I showed up, I swear!" insisted the aardvark girl.

"Don't make fun of George," said Prunella, her arms folded. "George is my friend, and he's cool."

Laverne snickered. "He'd be cooler if he was stuffed and mounted over my fireplace."

"I'll mount _you!_" shouted Prunella, her fist waving.

With Laverne retreating, George made an effort to untangle his antlers from the papery mess. "Let me help," said Prunella, bending over with helpful fingers. "You're lucky, you know. Last year there was a moose kid who fell asleep on a bench, and some girls took a nail file and shaved his antlers down to sharp points."

"Omigosh, that sounds awful," remarked George.

"Yeah, he couldn't put on a shirt without poking holes in it," Prunella went on. "On the plus side, the bullies didn't dare go near him after that."

When his antlers were finally clear, they smiled at each other. "Muffy tells me you've been having nightmares," said the rat girl. "You know what's good for that?"

"Uh, warm milk?" said George.

"_Hypnosis_," said Prunella ominously.

The prospect of being hypnotized by Prunella instantly launched George's imagination into a fantasy sequence…

"You are getting very sleepy," said Prunella, her eyes glowing, her hands caressing the moose boy's cheeks. "Very, very sleepy. When I count to three, you will fall into a deep sleep. One…two…"

George regained consciousness to find himself on a rusty chair, in the midst of the ruins that had been Prunella's house and the rest of Elwood City. To his alarm, a bushy white beard spread out from his chin, so dense he was unable to see his own feet. His neck creaked as he looked around, seeing only his friends in a similar state of advanced age, hobbling about on canes and walkers.

Muffy lurched in from the street, her back curved, her face wrinkled, her braids faded and split. "Look what you've done to us, George," she moaned eerily. "We're all oooooold…and it's _your fault!_"

_Hmm, falling asleep for 50 years doesn't sound so bad right now_, he thought. "Hypnosis, eh?" he responded to Prunella. "Sure, I'll give it a try."

* * *

To be continued


	9. The Freak Clique

The history teacher paused to clear his throat loudly. "By next Monday," he stated in a raspy voice, "I'd like each one of you to write a three-page paper about your favorite historical period. Good day, and good luck."

The ringing bell signaled the end of the first day of classes. "Hey, Buster," said Arthur to his friend as he gathered his books, "what's your favorite historical period?"

"The Stone Age," replied the young rabbit without hesitation.

"But there wasn't any history in the Stone Age," Arthur pointed out.

"Exactly," said Buster with a grin. "I'll just make up a story about cavemen and dinosaurs, and the teacher can't fail me, because for all he knows, it really happened."

"Actually, that's not true," said Mr. Kinsey, catching wind of their conversation. "Since cavemen and dinosaurs never inhabited the Earth at the same time, I'd know right away that your story is fabricated."

"Huh?" said Buster, taken aback. "That can't be right. What did the dinosaurs _eat_, then?"

A large crowd, or rather a large group of _small_ crowds, formed outside the glass doors that led into Woodlake Middle School. Francine, while searching for her usual circle, happened upon Van, who sat in his chair surrounded by a gang of oddly dressed students. "Hey, Van," she greeted him. "Looks like you made some, uh, non-standard friends."

"I tried all the different cliques," the duck boy reported. "Only the Mutant Freaks clique would have anything to do with me."

"Freaks rule!" shouted a poodle boy who wore dark sunglasses and a T-shirt covered with seemingly random words.

"And they will," added a bald rabbit girl with a nose ring, "from 2025 to 2032, only to be overthrown in a bloody military coup."

"It's nice to meet you all," said Francine, extending her hand to the long-haired cat boy at Van's left.

"Please don't touch me," said the lad quietly. "It's bad luck to touch me."

Elsewhere, Fern was once again approached by the eager-looking Tabitha. "Girl, you've just _got_ to come to my house," said her new classmate.

"I don't know, Tabby," said Fern.

"Let me put it another way," said Tabby. "Come to my house, or I'll kill myself right here and now."

Fern gave her a wary glance. "I believe you," she said flatly. "Let's go."

Although the trip to the Sugar Bowl was now three blocks longer, this didn't deter Arthur, Buster, Muffy, and Beat, who forged ahead in the direction of the ice cream shop. They were shortly joined by Blake, who asked in a rather disinterested tone, "Is it okay if I hang out with you all?"

Muffy did her best to conceal a grimace. "I guess so," she muttered.

"We're getting ice cream," Buster told him. "If you don't like ice cream, turn back now."

"Uh, ice cream's okay, I guess," said Blake, shrugging slightly. "But I don't got no money."

"That's no obstacle," said Beat. "I'm sure we'll encounter someone generous enough to buy you a sundae." She sniffed the air. "And possibly some new socks."

As Sue Ellen hurried to join them, a familiar voice summoned her. Over her shoulder she saw Binky, hiding in the shadows of some trees on the school lot. "What?" she said.

"Over here," said Binky, motioning with his finger.

The curious cat girl walked over to the grove where he stood. "Watch yourself," he cautioned her. "Those punks who threatened you this morning? They've got something nasty planned for you."

"Omigosh," said Sue Ellen nervously. "_How_ nasty?"

"I dunno," said Binky, his eyes darting about. "They said they're gonna hurt you so bad, you'll cry all the way back to your own planet."

She made a grim expression. "Like _that's_ gonna happen," she snarled, "when I've got _you_ on my side."

_That's the spirit_, thought Binky. _You are so gonna karate-kick their butts all the way to Karjakistan._

"It's so sweet of you to warn me," said Sue Ellen with doe-like eyes. "I'm starting to understand why the parallel-universe me picked _you_ as a boyfriend."

_Don't remind me_, thought Binky. _Okay, Slinky and Pinky should be here any minute now. Now. Nooooow. Noooooooow…_

True to their arrangement, the two bulldog boys appeared from opposite ends of the school building. _Like lambs to the slaughter_, Binky chuckled silently. He hesitated for a moment as they marched closer, then let his eyes widen in mock panic. "They're here!" he exclaimed.

Sue Ellen's green skirt bobbed as she whirled. "Oh, _no!_" she cried, frightened by the mean scowls of the oncoming bullies.

"We'll teach you to mess with Earth, alien," said Slinky.

"We're gonna make you wish you'd never been hatched," said Pinky, who held in his hand a dirt-filled glass jar.

"Back off, dudes," said Binky with all the fake confidence he could muster. "I said I'd only warn you once, and I _did_ warn you once, so you're all out of warnings."

"Binky," said Sue Ellen as terror seized her heart, "shouldn't you be in _front_ of me?"

She searched around for a way out, but saw that she was hemmed in—Slinky on the north, Pinky on the south, a wall on the east, and the seemingly immobilized Binky on the west. She had nothing left to do but scream.

_She's pretending to be helpless_, thought Binky. _It's one of those Sun Tzu tricks. Any second now she'll turn into a spinning dynamo of Tae Kwon Do. Any second now…_

His expectations collapsed as Slinky grabbed one of Sue Ellen's arms. While she fought to free herself, Pinky took hold of the collar of her dress, raised the glass jar, and emptied its earthy contents directly into her clothing.

_What the heck's wrong with her?_ thought Binky, alarmed.

The boys rushed off, giggling, as Sue Ellen stood motionlessly and worked through her fear and bewilderment. Her first concern was for her dress and undergarments, which would no doubt need a good washing. A sudden, red-hot pain convinced her that the dirt was the _least_ of her problems.

"Ants!" she exclaimed, her eyes moon-wide. "_Fire_ ants!"

_Fire ants?_ thought Binky. _Where did they get fire ants?_

"Ow! Ow!" cried Sue Ellen, squirming with discomfort. Aiming a deadly glare at Binky, she yelled, "You worthless clod! Why didn't you stop them? Why didn't you _do_ something?"

"Why didn't _I_ do something?" said Binky helplessly. "Why didn't _you?_"

* * *

to be continued


	10. A Matter of Honor

"Kendra here," said Van, gesturing toward the bald girl, "has the ability to see the future."

"Oh, really," said Francine, a bit suspiciously. "Can she tell me if I'll get good grades this year?"

"No," replied her duck-billed friend. "She can only predict _bad_ things."

Kendra's ears vibrated oddly. "In the year 805,701 A.D., a meteor will collide with Earth and render its surface uninhabitable," she intoned. "Humanity will be forced to live underground and eat worms."

"_What_ year was that again?" said Francine worriedly.

"My name's Duke," the poodle boy introduced himself, "and I can memorize anything instantly."

"That's amazing," Francine marveled.

"It's a gift, and a curse," Duke told her.

"How can it be a curse?" asked the monkey girl. "I'd _love_ it if I could do that."

"I'll show you," he offered. "Ask me a very simple question."

"Okay," said Francine. "What's the capital of Pennsylvania?"

Duke's face suddenly went as blank as his sunglasses. She waited for his answer, but nothing came out. Then Sue Ellen rushed past them, rubbing her back and weeping miserably.

"What's wrong with _her?_" mused Francine.

"That's…that's the girl who shook hands with me today," said the cat boy with the long auburn hair. "I _tried_ to warn her."

Binky, looking so sheepish that Francine thought she could see wool behind his ears, happened upon the group. "Hey, Binky," Van hailed him. "What happened to Sue Ellen?"

The bulldog boy stared down at his rather large feet. "Some, uh, bullies snuck up on her and dumped fire ants down her back."

"Fire ants?" exclaimed Francine with a gasp. "That's horrible!"

"That's _typical_," said the cat boy.

"Stop being so hard on yourself, Schlemiel," said Van comfortingly.

"Excuse me," said Francine, moving away. "I'd better see if I can help."

"The nurse has some hydrocortisone," Duke pointed out.

"Geez," said Van, looking toward the school entrance. "Poor Sue Ellen."

Binky shook his head. "I don't get it. She could've taken those guys. She's got a freakin' black belt."

"Maybe she tried, but fell flat on her face," said Schlemiel. "That's the effect I have on people. It's like I transfer my bad luck to them."

"Actually, Binky," said Van, "Sue Ellen stopped practicing martial arts about six months ago."

"She…" Binky's jaw plummeted. "…_what?_"

"She said she wanted to devote more time to _feminine_ activities," the duck boy went on. "Dancing, dressmaking, that sort of stuff. 'Fighting's for _boys_,' she said."

It seemed to Binky as if the concrete under his feet was turning into quicksand.

"Even so," said Van, "it's weird that she'd let herself be taken so easily. Unless, of course, there was a _boy_ nearby, and she was waiting for him to charge to her rescue."

Binky swallowed. "I-I've gotta go," he said anxiously. "I just remembered, I've got a bun in the oven."

Francine emerged through the school doors, her teeth clenched in anger. "Binky!" she cried out. "You dirty rotten coward!"

Unable to think of a better course of action, Binky ran away. With every step he felt Francine's glare melt through the back of his shirt. "You'd better run, coward!" she yelled after him.

"What was _that_ about?" Van asked the livid girl.

"Those punks were torturing her," Francine grumbled, "and he stood there and did _nothing_, the big dumb coward!"

Van became crestfallen. "Not Binky," he muttered quietly. "_Surely_ not Binky."

"Harrisburg," Luke suddenly blurted out.

"Took you long enough, wisenheimer," Francine chided him.

"Hey, I had a lot of information to sort through," said the boy defensively.

Meanwhile, Binky rounded a street corner only to be confronted by the familiar gang of four bulldog lads. "Oh, crap," he said under his breath.

"Binky, old chum," said Twinky warmly. "That was fantastic! We taught the alien a lesson she won't soon recover from."

"Your cunning and ruthlessness have earned you a place among us," said Dinky, puffing on a cigarette.

"Um, that's great," said Binky. "I'm honored, I think."

He gazed at them with hidden loathing. _There's only one way to regain my stolen honor,_ he resolved. _I am gonna kill you guys…_

* * *

To be continued


	11. A Royal Visit

Blake gaped in amazement. The ice cream sundae standing in front of Buster seemed to his eyes, at least as tall as a house. "That must cost a lotta money," the rat boy remarked.

"Don't ask him how he can afford it," said Arthur. "Ask him how he can _finish_ it."

"Ice cream's easy," said Buster, dumping a heaping spoonful into his mouth. "_Girls_ are a challenge."

Blake looked over to the next table, where Muffy and Beat had politely seated themselves away from Buster's vicinity. "Yo, girl with the pigtails," he said to Muffy. "You got such a nice dress. You rich, or somethin'?"

She returned his gaze and tried to be pleasant. "I _used_ to be rich," she related. "Used to have a real family, too."

Blake revealed several gaps in his teeth as he spoke. "I don't got no family neither," he told her. "My ma, she run off when I was a baby."

"Oh, that's dreadful," said Muffy earnestly. "Growing up without a female role model?"

"That would explain a great deal," said Beat, partially to herself.

"My pa, he takes good care of me," Blake went on, "but he don't like my homies."

"What does your father do for a living?" Arthur asked the boy.

"He got a new job now," was Blake's reply. "He goes door to door, sellin' stuff."

"Encyclopedias?" inquired Buster.

Blake shrugged. "I dunno."

"You'd have to be super strong to sell encyclopedias door to door," said the quick-eating rabbit boy.

Blake peered, once again, at Beat's chest. "You get much action with those things?" he asked the girl. "They're kinda small."

Both girls gasped and sputtered. "Of…of all the ill-mannered…" Muffy choked out.

"Blake Robinson, how _dare_ you!" Beat scolded him.

He lowered his head, swearing quietly. "Just askin' a question."

* * *

One wall of Tabby's bedroom had been painted completely black. Various music-related posters were attached to it, involving bands such as Fall Out Boy and Coldplay. The opposite wall was almost completely white and bare, save for a few scraps of wallpaper that begged to be removed.

Fern loved every inch of it. "This is the room _I've_ always dreamed of," she gushed.

"You can have it," said Tabby, dropping wearily onto her bed. "It's an okay room if you're just visiting for a week, but I have to sleep in it every night for the rest of my childhood."

Fern sat down on the other bed, giving herself a view of the posters. "I've never heard of most of these bands," she stated.

"Really? You haven't?" said Tabby, smiling. "Girl, you need to be introduced."

"Please don't call me 'girl'," said Fern. "I have a name."

"Oh, I'm sorry," said her friend. "I won't call you 'girl' anymore, uh…"

"Fern."

"Right. Seriously, Fern, you haven't heard of Fall Out Boy? They're the undisputed greatest band ever. Whenever I'm feeling gray, I put on one of their albums and sing along to their lyrics, and it's like I'm belting out my soul."

"Feeling _gray?_" said Fern. "Don't you mean feeling _blue?_"

Tabby sighed. "Blue is a _happy_ color. Here, in this room, I have no reason to be happy. I could stick posters everywhere, I could paint the walls with rainbows and unicorns and cherubs, but that wouldn't change the fact that it used to be _her_ room."

"Who are you talking about?"

"My baby sister, Hallie," said Tabby. "She slept in the very bed you're sitting on." Her voice began to quiver. "She died."

"Eww!" cried Fern. Standing up frantically, she started to brush off the seat of her dress.

"She died in a _hospital_," Tabby informed her.

"Oh," said Fern. Sitting down again, she said, "Gosh, Tabby, I don't know what that would be like."

"_Nobody_ does," said her friend. "My mom and dad won't talk about her. They won't let _me_ talk about her."

"How old was she?" Fern asked her.

"Five," replied Tabby. "Five teeny tiny years old."

"I'm so sorry," said the poodle girl.

"Even Fall Out Boy doesn't have words for what I felt when she died…what I _still_ feel," Tabby continued. "And I can't come up with them on my own, because I don't have a poetic gift like you do. That's where I was hoping you could help me, Fern."

* * *

"Before Prunella hypnotizes you, I've got a waiver I'd like you to sign," said Rubella, standing in the pale blue light of the crystal ball. "Basically you agree that she can't be held responsible for any damage to your mind, your brain, or your immortal soul."

"Shouldn't you be cooking something right now?" Prunella snapped at her.

"The restaurant doesn't open for dinner until five," said her older sister.

George, appearing out of the shadows, sat down on the wicker chair across from Prunella. "I'm ready," he said eagerly. "What do I do now?"

"Just relax," the rat girl instructed him.

"Okay, I'm relaxed," said George. "Now what?"

"You're not relaxed enough," said Prunella. "You need to relax _more._"

"Okay." George closed his eyes. "Relax…relax…relax…aaah. Now I'm _very_ relaxed."

"No, you're not," said Prunella. "You're wiggling. Sit still and relax."

"How the heck am I supposed to relax when you keep telling me to relax?" George protested.

Rubella watched the exchange between the two as if at a tennis match. "Your legs are very tired, George. They need to sleep. Can you feel your legs going to sleep?"

"Yeah," replied the moose boy. "I think the chair's cutting off the circulation."

"All right, George," said Prunella in a frustrated tone. "Imagine you're in history class. The teacher's lecturing you about the journey of the pioneers along the Oregon Trail. Imagine you're one of those pioneer kids, trudging along, mile after mile, nothing to see but sagebrush and a few hills in the distance, nothing to listen to but the creaking of the wagon wheels. Can you hear the wagon wheels creaking? Creak, creak, creak…"

Only seven creaks were needed to send George into a deep slumber. "Very good," said Prunella, watching the boy's nose drop. "Are you asleep, George?"

"Yes, master," he mumbled.

"A simple 'yes' will do," said Prunella. "Now I want you to think back to your trip to London. Think about standing in line at Buckingham Palace, you, and your sister, and Beat, and your parents."

"Are we there yet?" said George drowsily.

"Yes, we're there," Prunella told him. "The soldiers with the big hats are opening the gates so you can walk through. What do you see?"

"I…I see some big doors," George recalled. "I see guards everywhere. I see Sal picking her nose. I see Beat, and she's got a big, goofy smile on her face. I see…"

"Yes?"

George's voice, to the surprise of both sisters, began to take on a British quality. "I see the lovely statue they erected in my honor," he uttered. "I see the drawing room, where I spent many of my teenage years reading books and practicing music."

Rubella struggled to find her voice. "That's…that's…"

George looked upward at her, eyes wide open and full of life. "Don't stutter, child," he said gently.

"George?" Prunella called to him.

"Who is this George of whom you speak?" he said with an incredulous glare. "If you are looking for my grandson, he is not here."

_This is amazing_, thought Prunella. "Where are you right now?" she inquired.

"I am in my throne room, entertaining guests," replied George matter-of-factly. "Although, truth be told, I don't remember seeing _you_ on the guest list."

Dread filled Prunella's heart as she summoned forth her next question. "To whom am I speaking?"

George chuckled softly. "Do you need to ask? I am Her Majesty, Queen Victoria."

* * *

To be continued


	12. Her Majesty Speaks

The excitement threatened to burst through Prunella's cheeks. "Excuse me a moment, Your Highness," she said hastily. "I'd like to have a word with my sister."

George smiled courteously. "You have my leave, child."

Her plaid skirt bounced as she hurried behind a partition, Rubella following closely. "Omigod, I can't believe it!" she said, her words coming out at astonishing speed. "It's my very first past-life regression, and who should show up but Queen Victoria herself! Queen freakin' Victoria, the lady who designed all that furniture!"

"Calm down, Prunie," said Rubella. "You don't want to hyperventilate again."

"We should put on our nicest dresses," the rat girl continued. "We're in the presence of royalty, after all."

"There's a procedure to follow when something like this takes place," said her sister in an officious tone. "First of all, we need to establish that the phenomenon is genuine and not a mere parlor trick. To that end, we should bring in an unbiased expert to examine George."

"I know an expert," said Prunella helpfully.

At that same moment Muffy and Beat stood by the entrance to the Sugar Bowl, reflecting on the day behind them. "I've met some rude kids, but Blake Robinson takes the cannoli," said Muffy. "He has absolutely no social graces, he probably doesn't even bathe, and he can't seem to put a coherent sentence together unless it contains the word 'homies'."

"He could definitely use some finishing," said Beat, nodding. "Trust me, however, you haven't seen rudeness until you've visited London. Most Londoners are miserable buggers. I think it's the fog that does it, plus their bowels are all backed up."

Her cell phone rang unexpectedly. Picking it up, she answered, "Hello?"

"Hey, Beat," came Prunella's voice. "There's something amazing at my house I'd like you to check out. How soon can you come over?"

"I'll be right over," replied the rabbit-aardvark girl.

As she closed the call, Muffy spoke up. "Why don't you get some ring tones? I know a web site with hundreds of free ring tones you can download."

Beat shrugged. "What would I do with hundreds of ring tones?"

"A ring tone is an expression of your personality," Muffy explained to her.

"That doesn't make sense," said Beat. "You can't sum up an entire personality with just one musical signature."

Muffy beamed. "That's why you need _hundreds!_"

Beat offered her a patronizing smile. "I've got to go," she said. "Give Wyatt my regards."

* * *

She found the Prufrock sisters, and a moose boy with glazed eyes, hunched around the crystal ball table. "What have we got, then?" she asked those assembled.

George was the first to speak, and he spoke strangely. "Ah, a proper British lass, but with the grandest ears I've ever seen. You could employ them as semaphores, you could."

Beat stopped, stared incredulously, and began to applaud. "Bravo! A flawless brogue, George. What's it for? Are you rehearsing for a play?"

Prunella and Rubella grinned with amusement while George addressed Beat. "Your accent is odd," said the boy. "I can't quite place it."

"I grew up in London, west of the Thames," said Beat, "as you're well aware."

George scrunched up his face thoughtfully. "I've traveled up and down the Thames, from Oxford to Windsor, and never have I heard a subject of mine speak after your manner," he stated.

His elegant words pushed Beat further into incredulity. "How do you mean, 'subject'? If you have subjects, then you must be a king."

He let out a foppish chuckle. "I am no king, child," he told the girl. "I am Her Majesty, the Queen."

A moment of strained silence passed. Finally Beat said, "Now I get it. You're conducting an experiment in Shakespearean theatre, with the men playing the roles of the women."

"I'm having a hard time understanding you," said George, looking aside at the rat sisters. "Perhaps one of you kind lasses could interpret."

Prunella smiled sheepishly. "Let me explain, Beat. I invited George over to be hypnotized, hoping it would help with his nightmares."

"Who is this George, pray tell?" said the bemused moose.

"No sooner was he under," Prunella went on, "than he started to talk in flowery Victorian sentences."

"That I can see," said Beat impatiently.

"Since you're British," said Rubella, "we figured you could listen to what he has to say, and tell us if it's an authentic past-life regression, or just a prank."

Beat grumbled the phrase under her breath. "Past…life…regression…"

"It's a technique by which a hypnotic subject recalls details of past incarnations," said the teenaged rat girl.

"I _know_ what it means," said Beat, hands placed indignantly on her hips. "Seriously, Prunella, I can't believe you called me here just so I could witness this mass of bollocks."

George gasped. "Oh, such language! And in the royal court!"

"And in case you haven't noticed, Your Majesty," said Beat mockingly, "this isn't the royal court…it's an _attic_."

"Sh! Sh!" Prunella stopped her. "Hypnotism is a delicate procedure. The last thing you want to do is make the subject aware of her…uh, _his_ surroundings."

George glanced curiously at the rafters above. "This isn't the palace," he said in a shocked whisper. "This isn't even the servants' quarters. Where on God's green earth _am_ I?"

"Well, uh," said Prunella, fighting for words, "we invited you to dinner, Your Highness, because we're such loyal subjects of yours."

"We're your _biggest_ subjects," Rubella added. "I'm making a special chicken pot pie."

"For that matter," said George, scrutinizing his T-shirt, "_who_ am I? These are not the robes I was wearing, nor is this voice familiar. I seem to have become an entirely different person. Fetch me a mirror, at once!"

"A mirror," repeated Prunella. Gesturing at an old clothes dresser, she said, "Beat, bring that mirror over here, please."

The long-eared girl sighed peevishly. "As my queen commands," she muttered, snatching the rectangular mirror from the top of the faded piece of Victorian furniture.

"This is totally unusual for a past-life regression," whispered Rubella to her sister. "Normally, as soon as the past incarnation realizes she's inside someone else, the trance is broken."

Meanwhile, Prunella positioned the mirror at a straight angle so that George could observe his reflection. "Ye gods!" exclaimed the boy with alarm. "I'm…I'm a tiny creature with a bulbous nose and _trees_ growing out of my head!"

Without warning the mirror _shattered_…

* * *

To be continued


	13. Phantasmagorical Flimflammery

Buster triumphantly raised his spoon into the air. The dessert had been vanquished.

"You know, with that much ice cream you could've fed a dozen starving children in Africa," Arthur pointed out.

"Yeah," agreed the rabbit, "but they'd just be starving again tomorrow. Handing out food is only a temporary solution. The fight against world hunger will only be won by a combination of economic reform, microfinance, and agricultural advances."

Arthur stared at him, glassy-eyed (and not just because of his glasses). "How do _you_ know so much?" he asked.

"Miss Turner will only let me take out one library book per week," explained Buster. "I checked out a book called _Stop Hunger Now_, thinking it was a food book, and now I'm stuck with it. I've already read it through six times."

Arthur glanced at his digital watch. "We'd better get going," he told his companion. "We don't want to miss the new series, _Bark Rottweiler vs. the 25__th__ Century_."

"You bet we don't," said Buster, struggling to lift his loaded belly from the chair. "I've been waiting a whole _day_ for that show."

Blake stood up along with the other boys. "Can I come?" he inquired.

Both Arthur and Buster regarded him with surprise. "Uh…" Arthur began to say.

"I won't say nothin' rude," the rat boy promised.

"Yeah, I suppose you can," said Arthur tentatively. "It's just…well, don't you have anywhere else to go?"

Blake shook his head. "My pa don't get off work 'til seven."

Arthur and Buster exchanged worried looks. "You mean he's…he's not coming to get you until seven o'clock?" said Buster.

"Uh-huh," said Blake matter-of-factly.

"And you have _nothing_ to do until then?" said Arthur, amazed.

The boy nodded.

The bespectacled aardvark turned to his friend. "What kind of dad leaves his kid alone all day?" he wondered. "With _us?_"

Buster could only shrug.

"Can I come with you, or not?" Blake asked again.

"Uh, yeah, I guess you can," replied Arthur. "Like watching TV?"

"Don't got no TV," said Blake. "It's busted."

"Oh, man," groaned Buster. "I know how you must feel. Once we were without cable for an entire _week_."

"What's cable?" Blake asked innocently.

* * *

Only a few shards of glass still clung to the frame George was holding. "Oops," he said, half-jokingly. "Seven years bad luck."

"That, actually, is just an old superstition," Rubella informed him. "Breaking a mirror has no effect at all on your luck, _unless_ you break it in a church."

"How long was I hypnotized?" George inquired of the girls around him. "When did Beat show up? Did I break anything else?"

"How _long?_" said Prunella, spreading her arms dramatically. "What does it matter? What does time even _mean_ when something as momentous as this happens?"

"You're hyperventilating," said Rubella flatly.

"I…am…_not_," said Prunella as she gasped for breath.

"What's she so excited about?" George wanted to know.

Beat, having rolled her eyes for what seemed like an eternity, finally unrolled them. "I'm very impressed," she said to the young moose. "You must have practiced for days to get the accent right."

"_What_ accent?" said George, even more confused.

"It was no accent," Rubella insisted. "Queen Victoria _was_ talking through you."

He dropped the broken mirror onto his lap. "Queen…_Victoria?_"

"Yes," said the confident rat girl. "I have reason to believe she was one of your past incarnations. You should feel honored."

George slapped his hands onto his cheeks to stop his head from spinning. "Oh, no," he muttered. "Oh, no…"

"What's the matter?" Rubella asked him.

"Oh, crud," he lamented, covering his eyes. "I _knew_ this was coming. First Mr. Winslow, then Buster, then Van, then Zeke…and now it's _my_ turn!"

Beat leaned over to peer at his distraught face. "What…are you talking about?" she queried him.

"Maybe it's for the best," said George, looking back at her with anxious eyes. "The bullies won't bother me as much, I'll get to wear more comfortable underpants…"

"Don't be silly," said Prunella. Bracing his chin with her hand, she added, "You are _not_ going to turn into a girl. What my sister means is that you _were_ a girl once, in a past life."

Calmness returned to George's face as he pondered her statements. "That _would_ explain some of the dreams," he mused. "Wandering around Buckingham Palace, looking into a mirror and seeing a princess…"

"Exactly!" said Prunella with gusto. "And your vacation in London was the trigger that started the avalanche of memories, which manifested themselves in your subconscious as nightmares."

"What about you, Beat?" said Rubella to the grim-faced rabbit-aardvark girl. "Have you experienced any strange dreams since returning from England?"

She nodded. "Yes, I have. I've been dreaming of a world where people no longer believe in such phantasmagorical flim-flammery."

"So," said George, grinning, "did I really talk like a queen? Did I say, 'Off with his head!'?"

"No, you didn't say that," replied Prunella, "but you said some beautiful things."

"I'd like you to hypnotize me again tomorrow," said George. "And this time, I'll bring a tape recorder."

"I'll bring one too," said Beat. "I'm going to figure out how you're doing this."

* * *

To be continued


	14. First Impressions

"Hi there, kids," said Mary Moo Cow, squeezed into an airplane seat. "I'm on my way to West Virginia to meet some kids who work underground in coal mines with their parents. Doesn't that sound exciting? And, so I can record everything I see and play it back for you, I've brought along my handy-dandy video camera." She turned the camera lens towards the window of the plane. "Look at that, kids! We're going down the runway, about to take off…"

"Pardon me, ma'am," said a passing flight attendant. "I'll have to ask you to turn off your portable electronic device."

"What…?" said the stupefied cow.

Grandpa Dave shuffled by, clutching his walker. Eyeing the TV curiously, he asked, "What's this you're watching?"

D.W. grinned at him from the couch. "It's _Postcards from Mary_, a spinoff from _New Moo Revue_," she told him.

"Eh?" said the old man, scratching his stubbly chin. "How'd they get a cow onto an airplane?"

"Mary isn't a _real_ cow," explained his granddaughter. "She's a lady dressed up like a cow."

"I know that," said Dave, chuckling. "A real cow has big teats and has to be milked every morning."

"Grandpa, you said a bad word," D.W. scolded him.

"I'm sorry," said the oldster. "Say, what's this you're watching?"

"_Postcards from Mary_," said D.W. with an impatient sigh.

"What's a cow doing on an air—" said Grandpa, just as the front door opened.

In walked Arthur, Buster, and their new classmate Blake. Arthur greeted his father, who was laboring in the kitchen with yolk-covered hands. "Hey, Dad. Whatcha makin'?"

"It's a potato salad," said the aardvark man in the apron.

"Cool," said Buster. "I made potato salad once."

"Really? You did?" said Mr. Read.

"Yeah," said the long-eared boy. "Well, actually, it was potato _chip_ salad, with potato chips instead of potatoes, and, uh, root beer instead of mayonnaise."

"Dad," said Arthur, gesturing at the shoddily dressed rat boy, "this is Blake Robinson. He's in our class at middle school."

"Yo," said Blake disinterestedly.

"Welcome," said Mr. Read. "Sorry I can't shake hands." _Because yours look filthy._

"You got any cigarettes?" Blake asked him.

His request put a slight scowl on the man's face. "No, we don't have any cigarettes," he stated, "and you're much too young to be smoking anyway."

"I ain't gonna smoke 'em," said Blake, a bit crossly. "I'm gonna stick 'em…"

A glance at Arthur and Buster, who seemed to be hanging on his words, prompted him to soften his tone. "I'm gonna stick 'em in the ground, and see if they grow up into cigarette trees," he concluded.

"Well, we don't have any," said Mr. Read.

"Okay, fine," said Blake. "Do you got any beer?"

Opening the refrigerator and proudly displaying its contents to the boy, Mr. Read said, "We've got some nice Juicy Juice."

"Okay, whatever you got," said Blake, frustrated. "Geez."

D.W. soon found herself surrounded by three boys, each sipping from a Juicy Juice container. "Who's the new guy?" she asked Arthur.

"His name's Blake," her brother replied. "He's in our class."

"You smell funny," D.W. addressed the rat boy.

"Don't say such rude things, D.W.," called her father from behind the salad bowl.

"Well, _somebody's_ gotta make him aware of his problem," said the little girl.

"What's your name?" Blake inquired of her.

"It's D.W.," she answered.

"What's that stand for?" was Blake's next question.

"It stands for _don't want_," she said, "as in, I _don't want_ to tell you."

Arthur began to fiddle with the remote control. "Let's see what else is on," he said idly.

A _Bunny League_ rerun appeared. "Great Scott!" cried Bionic Bunny to his comrades. "That impish little man is transforming the people of Manhattan into parrots!"

Indeed, throughout Times Square the crowds of pedestrians were vanishing, giving way to hordes of colorfully-plumaged, very annoyed birds. "Squawk! Who taught you how to drive, you moron?" "Squawk! Quit blocking the road, you idiot!" "Squawk! Give someone else a turn in the phone booth, you (bleep)!"

As the Bunny Leaguers confronted the diminutive man in the green hat, he introduced himself: "I am Mr. Sdrawkcab, a traveler from the year 5,000,000,000,000,001 A.D. I possess futuristic technology which, to your primitive eyes, is indistinguishable from magic."

"I order you to cease and desist at once!" barked Bionic Bunny.

"Ha!" said Mr. Sdrawkcab derisively. "How do you propose to defeat me? I can annihilate you with a snap of my fingers, and the only way to send me back to my own time is to trick me into saying my name backwards! Oops…"

Buster groaned. "Lamest supervillain _ever_. I am _so_ not adding him to my action figure collection."

"I've heard the next big thing is _edible_ action figures," said Arthur.

"Cool," said Buster. "So you can, like, play with them until they break, and then eat the pieces? What are they made of?"

"Recycled Christmas fruitcake," Arthur replied.

"Hey, Buster," D.W. chimed in, "if you're afraid of girls, how come you're not afraid of _me?_"

"Because you're a _little_ girl," was Buster's answer.

"I won't be little forever," said D.W. "Someday you and I will be the same size."

Buster considered this statement with the part of his brain that wasn't watching TV.

"Er, excuse me," he said, leaving the couch with haste. Scurrying up the stairs, he sealed himself inside Arthur's room and searched for comic books to read.

"That ain't right," remarked Blake. "A boy shouldn't be afraid o' no girl. I say, if a girl gives you sass, you just slap 'er upside the head."

"You ain't slappin' _me_ upside o' no head," said D.W. defiantly.

"But…boys aren't supposed to hit girls," said Arthur, sounding concerned. "It's one of the Ten Commandments."

"No, it ain't," said Blake. "Love your ma and pa, and don't tell no lies—_those_ are the Ten Commandments."

By this time Mr. Read, his apron stained with mayonnaise, was standing before Blake and glowering. "What's that you said about hitting girls?" he demanded.

With perfect sincerity Blake said to him, "Don't tell me _you_ never hit _your_ wife."

"I'll have you know," said the indignant aardvark man, "that in all the years Jane and I have been married, I have never _once_ hit her."

"And look where it's got you," said Blake with a triumphant sneer. "She does whatever she wants, and sticks _you_ with all the cookin'."

Mr. Read sputtered. "You…" he managed to get out. "You are a bad influence on my children. I'd like you to leave now."

A suffocating silence fell over the living room. Blake's petulant expression turned into one of meekness. Without further ado he stood, marched slowly to the front door, and let himself out.

"Dad," Arthur protested, "why'd you have to do that?"

"You know why," snapped his father. "I don't want him filling your head with wrong ideas about how to treat women."

"Yeah," said Arthur, "but where's he gonna go now? His dad's not coming to get him until seven."

The news left Mr. Read in a befuddled state. Making his way to the kitchen window, he observed through the glass that Blake was now sitting motionlessly on the curb, his spindly legs stretched out on the asphalt.

"Good Lord," he mused. "What kind of parents must he have?"

"I'll bet they smoke weeds," D.W. interjected.

* * *

To be continued


	15. Clothes Make the Girl

"There are basically four categories of pop music," said Tabby to Fern, as both girls browsed the selection of clothing at the Hot Topic store. "There's 'I Love You', there's 'I Want You Back', 'You Cheated', and 'I Don't Want to Be Lonely Tonight'. If your song doesn't fall into one of the four categories, it's not _commercial_. Problem is, unless you're a goldfish, your feelings are too deep and complex to be laid out by a song in one of those categories."

"Uh-huh," said Fern.

"Take you, for example," Tabby went on. "You could write a song about how much you miss your old dimension, and people would love it, but would the major record labels take a chance on it? In Bizarro World, maybe."

Fern looked over a black satin blouse with streaks of hot pink. "This is pretty loud," she remarked. "I've always been a quiet kid. Am I ready for this?"

"You don't have to be ready," Tabby assured her. "You put it on, and zap! You're a new girl."

At the Dullard's store in the same mall, Muffy and Wyatt examined a rack of spaghetti strap dresses. "I've always been so modest," said Muffy wistfully. "Am I ready for this?"

"You'd look lovely in it," the poodle boy told her. "You'd catch the eye of all the boys at your new school. You might even turn _me_ straight."

"Don't joke about that," said Muffy. "Our relationship is fine the way it is."

Time passed. Money was spent. The pair sauntered through the mall corridor, Muffy allowing her new red dress sway freely.

"Who do you think is the cutest Jonas Brother?" Wyatt asked his friend. "I say it's Joe."

"Joe? Seriously?" said Muffy. "Nick. Definitely Nick."

Tabby and Fern approached from another arm of the mall, giggling thoughtlessly. "Who do you think is the gayest Jonas Brother?" Tabby asked her friend. "I say it's Nick."

"No way," Fern replied. "Joe is _so_ much gayer than Nick."

Not far from the food court, Muffy's, Wyatt's, Fern's, and Tabby's eyes met.

"Omigosh, it's Fern," Muffy blurted out. "And that weird emo girl. _Together_."

"Hey, guys," said Fern warmly. "Nice dress, Muffy. Are you buying it or renting it?"

"New semester, new look," said Muffy with a pretentious curtsey.

"It's great," said Fern, "but…spaghetti straps? In middle school?"

"I would've gone with a strapless dress," said Muffy, "but, you know, there's nothing to hold it up."

"Who's your friend?" Tabby asked her.

"This," said Muffy, gesturing proudly at her companion, "is my good friend, Wyatt Holberg."

Tabby put out her hand and her freshly blackened nails. "Nice to meet you."

"Likewise," said Wyatt with a vigorous shake.

"So," said Tabby nonchalantly, "who do _you_ think is the gayest Jonas Brother?"

Wyatt's throat clenched. "The Jonas Brothers," he said with firmness, "are _not_ gay."

"Sure they are," Tabby insisted.

"If they were, I'd know," said Wyatt. "I have gaydar."

"Gaydar?" said the cat girl, bemused.

"Yup," said Wyatt smugly. "Clay Aiken didn't have me fooled for a second."

"Before you say another word," Fern said abruptly to Tabby, "you should know that _Wyatt_ is gay."

For a moment Tabby looked as if a mule had kicked her in the elflock.

"I…I had no idea," she said apologetically.

"It's not your fault," said Wyatt. "It takes one to know one."

They parted ways, and Tabby reflected on her gaffe. "Remind me to never again say 'they're gay' when I really mean to say 'they stink'," she urged Fern.

"Wyatt's a good kid," said the young poodle. "At least _this_ dimension's Wyatt is. The Wyatt from my own dimension ruined the Resistance's plans by warning this dimension's Muffy that we were coming through the portal." She sighed. "I still can't understand why he would do that."

Muffy, not far away, could only smile. "I haven't seen Fern so happy for a long time," she remarked to Wyatt. "She didn't moan about being stuck in our dimension, or call me Muffy 2.0, or anything like that. I guess Tabby's having a good effect on her."

Tabby, unnoticed by her, was leading Fern in the direction of the ladies' room. "Let's get you changed into your new blouse," she said eagerly, "and then we'll go to the salon and dye your hair."

* * *

To be continued


	16. The Morning of the Second Day

Beat felt as though the weight of the world was on her eyelids. _Just a few more steps and I'll be at school_, she urged herself, trudging forward. _I hope Mr. Farrenc won't be offended if I sleep through his lesson. It's a good thing I read ahead two chapters in the maths book._

Swarms of kids were walking into the middle school, among them George, who caught sight of the groggy girl. "Hey, Beat," he called to her. "What's the matter? Couldn't sleep?"

"Mugh," she grunted.

"I know the feeling," said the friendly moose boy. "Sometimes the nightmares get so bad…"

"I am _not_ having nightmares," said Beat with unexpected sharpness.

"I, uh, didn't say you were," said George, gaping slightly.

Beat struggled to locate the school entrance with her bleary eyes. "Just give me a jolt of caffeine, and I'll be fine," she mumbled. "I think three times the legal limit should be sufficient."

George walked alongside her into the building. "If you could do me a favor," he said hesitantly, "please don't tell anybody that I was Queen Victoria in a past life."

"Your secret's safe with me," said Beat, somewhat sarcastically.

"The last thing I want to do is give the kids another reason to laugh at me," George went on.

"They'll laugh at _me_ if I tell them," said Beat.

They soon happened upon a mob of their friends, which included Francine, Alan, and Mavis. "Look, everyone," said Francine, pointing toward the young moose. "It's Her Majesty, the Queen!"

George froze in his tracks. "Hunh?"

"Someone hand me a red carpet, and I'll roll it out," offered Mavis, the thickly bespectacled hamster girl.

"What the heck?" said George, outraged. "Who blabbed?"

"It's all over the school," Alan told him. "Prunella won't shut up about it."

"God save our gracious Queen, long live our noble Queen…" Francine began to sing.

"Oh, that Prunella," George grumbled bitterly.

"Relax," said Alan. "Nobody believes her, and _we're_ only teasing you because we're your friends.'

"_I_ believe her," said Mavis. "Well, I mean, I don't disbelieve her. A crazy old scientist put himself in my body once, so I guess anything's possible."

"In order for a person to be reincarnated," Alan lectured her, "the information contained in the neurons of the person's brain would have to somehow migrate into the brain of a newborn baby. By the laws of classical, Newtonian physics, that's an impossibility; if you factor in quantum uncertainty, it becomes merely an _improbability_."

"You have no imagination," Mavis chided him.

"The _universe_ has no imagination," said Alan with authority.

They departed for the classroom, where the French math teacher was etching out algebra equations on the blackboard. Beat, reaching up to tap the man's shoulder, said, "If you could, sir, please try to make this lesson an exciting one, because I don't know how else I'll stay awake."

Mr. Farrenc grinned and patted her ears. "Ho ho ho," he said in his thick accent. "You had better fazzen your seat belt, _mademoiselle_."

Binky was the last to arrive, stepping in just as the teacher cleared his throat to read the roll. "Hi, everybody," he said with a wave.

"Hmph!" said Muffy and Francine, sticking up their noses in sync.

The gesture flattened Binky's smile. Strutting over to where Sue Ellen sat, he began to say, "Listen, about what happened yesterday, I can explain…"

"You're dead to me now," muttered the cat girl, and she thrust a math book in front of her face.

Seeing Binky's chagrin, Van (figuratively) stepped up to defend him. "There were two guys," he said earnestly. "Two _big_ guys. Even Binky couldn't take them both. And _you_, Sue Ellen…would it have killed you to use a _little_ bit of karate?"

The girl raised her finely manicured fingertips up to Van's beak. "I paid good money for these nails," she stated.

* * *

To be continued


	17. Shattered Glass

At the back of the classroom, where Binky eventually settled to avoid the unfriendly stares of the girls, a surprise awaited him. Fern sat in the desk alongside Tabby's, clad in a dark blouse streaked with pink, her hair and ears dyed pitch black, her customary hair ribbon nowhere to be seen.

"Whoa, Fern," said Binky, impressed. "You…you look…_individual_."

Fern smiled confidently. "You said it, Binky. This is my way of showing the world that I'm my own person, and I don't care what anyone else thinks." After a pause she turned to Tabby and asked, "Do I?"

"No, you don't," her friend replied.

The algebra lecture went ahead, and Beat _still_ couldn't sleep. "Ze roots of ze second-degree equation may be _tea with jam and bread_ by ze quadratic formula," she heard Mr. Farrenc say. "If ze determinant is _my bonny lies over the ocean_, zen ze roots of ze equation are _someone left the cake out in the rain_ substituting for 'x' in ze _don't you wish your girlfriend was cute like me_ yielding ze solution…"

"…and the only thing that can wake her is the kiss of true love," were the next words she could barely understand.

"Buster will do it." It was Arthur speaking. "Won't you, Buster? Buster…?"

"All right, all right, I'm awake," she mumbled, lifting her tired head. "What day is it?"

* * *

As she made ready to open the locker door and deposit her math textbook, Muffy noticed the presence of George, who gazed at her as if in a trance. _Well, that's a bit disconcerting_, she thought. _Wyatt told me I'd catch the eyes of the boys in this dress, but I didn't expect it to happen so literally._

"Uh, hi, Muff," said the antlered boy without moving an inch.

"Hi, George," she responded glibly.

"I…" He took a step forward. "I wanted to comment on your new dress."

Muffy grinned, cradling the math book against her chest. "I _thought_ you'd like it."

George opened his mouth, but something appeared to block his words.

"Don't be bashful," said Muffy encouragingly. "I used to be your girlfriend, remember? You can tell me anything."

"It's…it's…" stammered George, and for an instant his manner changed entirely. "It's horribly immodest, and you should be ashamed."

The sting cut through Muffy's heart. "You…" It didn't occur to her to wonder why the boy had begun to speak in a British accent. "You really think so?"

George appeared somewhat distracted. "Uh, yeah," he said, nodding. "I really think so."

He walked away, leaving Muffy in a stew of bewilderment, knowing only that her fashion sense had been insulted by someone for whom she cared deeply. _I have the most beautiful skin_, she told herself. _What's wrong with seeing more of my skin? When did George turn into such a prude?_

Shaking her head sadly, she dialed the combination of her Disney Princess lock, pulled open the locker door, and saw…_glass everywhere_.

"Omigosh!" she cried out. "Omifreakingosh!"

Principal Cameron, a rat woman with mousy-brown hair, had lined up the usual suspects—Slinky, Dinky, Pinky, and Twinky—in her office. Sue Ellen, standing up due to the soreness of her ant-bitten rear end, scrutinized the four bulldog boys carefully.

"I'm sure it was two of these guys," she told the principal, "but I'm not sure _which_ two. They look so much alike."

"_I_ did it," boasted Slinky.

"No, _I_ did it!" retorted Dinky.

"They had nothing to do with it," claimed Pinky. "It was all _me_."

"I'm Spartacus!" said Twinky.

"If there's anything I hate, it's punks who stick up for each other," said Principal Cameron, her voice delicate yet menacing. "Rest assured, I'll be on the phone with your parents, or the lab where you were cloned, or whatever."

Muffy, distraught, burst into the room. "Miss Principal! Miss Principal!" she yelled.

"It's Mrs. Cameron now," said the woman. "Principal was my _maiden_ name."

"A terrible thing has happened!" said Muffy, gesticulating frantically. "Someone…someone broke into my locker…and destroyed my precious _mirror!_"

* * *

to be continued


	18. We Are Not Amused

"Slow down," said Principal Cameron to the panicked girl. "You're telling me somebody broke into your locker?"

"They knew the combination," said Muffy in despair. "It must've been an inside job!"

"What did they take?" Sue Ellen asked her.

"They took _this!_" cried Muffy, holding up an ornate wood frame to which a few shards of glass clung resolutely. "It's a priceless family heirloom!"

"Priceless?" said Sue Ellen, examining the handle. "So why's the price tag still on it?"

Muffy's face turned as red as her hair. "Uh…well, it's _going_ to be a priceless family heirloom, once I've passed it on to my daughter."

The bulldog boys began to snicker. "Check this out, guys," said Dinky, rudely seizing the mirror from Muffy's hand. "It's from Wal-Mart."

"Hey! Give that back!" she protested.

"You heard the lady," said Principal Cameron sternly.

"Okay," said Dinky, eagerly passing the broken trinket back to its owner. "But I think I can guess what happened to it."

"What?" Slinky asked him.

"It didn't break," said Dinky with a smirk. "It committed suicide!"

The boys laughed riotously. Insulted beyond her ability to bear, Muffy started to cry bitterly. Sue Ellen, moved with concern, laid an arm around her shoulders and led her away from the principal's office.

"Don't let those rotten kids make you sad," said the cat girl comfortingly. "They'll get what's coming to them. Someday."

Muffy sniffled and wiped her eyes with one of her braids. "First George called my new dress immodest, and now this!" she moaned. "What did I do to deserve such abuse?"

Sue Ellen froze. "Wait. _George_ called your dress immodest?"

* * *

"You're kidding," said Fern. "George thinks Muffy's dress is immodest? Puh-leeze! I've seen his _mom_ parade around in spaghetti straps."

"It's the truth," claimed Tabby. "I heard it from a friend who heard it from a friend who heard it from me who heard it from a friend who heard it from…"

* * *

"He said it right to Muffy's face," Francine related. "Isn't that crazy?"

"Indeed it is," marveled Beat. "You could almost say George has embraced Victorian attitudes."

* * *

"Hey, Van," said Buster. "George called Muffy's new dress immodest purple monkey dishwasher."

The duck boy peered incredulously at him. "Are you sure you heard that right?"

* * *

"Hey, George," said Van. "Is it true that you called Muffy's new dress immodest?"

"No," said George, who was washing the red from his hands after painting a giant plate of spaghetti.

The boy in the wheelchair nodded. "So it _is_ just a rumor."

He followed George past Blake's canvas, and noticed the shapeless pink mass the rat boy had rendered. "What's _that_ thing?" he inquired.

"It's a naked lady," said Blake proudly.

Van bent forward for a closer look. "_That's_…a naked lady?" he remarked. "It looks more like a turnip."

Blake shrugged. "I ain't never _seen_ a naked lady before."

Finding Muffy in front of a canvas where she had reproduced her lost mirror in near-perfect detail, George and Van approached her. "Muffy, I think your dress is beautiful," said George. "I don't think it's immodest at all."

She turned grateful eyes to the boy. "Apology accepted."

"Huh?" said George, bewildered. "_What_ apology?"

He and Muffy gaped at each other, sharing their confusion. "You…you really don't remember," Muffy spoke up.

"What should I remember?" George asked her.

"You told me my dress was immodest," said Muffy seriously, "and that I should be ashamed of it."

"I said no such thing," the moose insisted. "If this is your idea of a joke, then we are _not_ amused."

Muffy, on the other hand, was quite _bemused_ by the royal air the boy had suddenly taken on. "Omigosh, Prunella was right. You really _are_ the reincarnation of Queen Victoria."

George discovered that he was trembling. _That wasn't me talking_, he realized. _Where did it come from?_

* * *

To be continued


	19. A Snitch in Time

In those moments when she had no duties as a principal to perform, May Cameron drew cartoons. When Binky stepped into her office, looking rather sheepish, she was penciling a rendition of the famous photograph of soldiers raising an American flag at Iwo Jima. One of the soldiers in her drawing was wearing only "I Love New York" boxers and bedroom slippers.

She glanced up briefly at the boy. "Oh, geez, _another_ one," she grumbled.

"Uh, hi," said Binky, helping himself to the hard wooden chair. "My name's Binky Barnes, and…"

"I know," said the principal curtly.

His uneasiness grew. "I…I wanted to…" He struggled to get the words out. "I wanted to tell you that…Slinky and Pinky were the ones who put fire ants down Sue Ellen's dress."

She laid down her pencil and stared thoughtfully at him. "That's very brave of you, Binky Barnes. No doubt they threatened you with serious bodily harm if you snitched on them, or else you would've come forward immediately instead of waiting a whole day."

Binky nodded and squirmed a bit.

"On the other hand," said the principal, her tone malevolent, "perhaps _you_ were in on the prank all along, and you've spent the past twenty-four hours trying to figure out a clever way to rat out your fellow squash-heads while escaping punishment yourself."

"Hey!" exclaimed Binky, startled by the term that had once prompted his father to break a prisoner's nose. "Who're you calling a squash-head?"

"Do you have to ask?" said Principal Cameron mockingly. "You and I are the only ones here."

_I was about to confess everything_, thought Binky, _but now I just want to clobber you._

"I've served as principal of four different schools," she continued, "and at every one of those schools, it was the squash-heads who caused the most trouble. They're stupid, ill-mannered, have no respect for authority, and will do anything to draw attention to themselves, especially if it involves loud noises and breaking things. If not for the squash-heads, Adam Sandler wouldn't exist."

"Yeah?" said Binky, rising from his seat. "At least I'm not a _rat_, with a pointy, hairy nose and sharp front teeth for opening cans of _poop_."

Principal Cameron leaned back and tented her fingers. "A typical squash-head response," she muttered. "Tell me, Binky Barnes, how do you _know_ it was Slinky and Pinky who attacked Sue Ellen? Did you recognize them? Are they your _friends?_"

Still fuming, Binky managed to force himself into a sitting position. "They…they sorta think I'm one of _them_," he replied. "Whenever they see me, they give me high-fives and stuff. And they talk a lot about the _alien_, and how they're gonna send her crying all the way back to her planet, but I didn't take them seriously, at least not until they came at her with the fire ants."

The rat woman nodded slowly. "Y'know, if it were up to me," she said flippantly, "there'd be a detail of FBI agents watching that girl's every move. I mean, who knows where her loyalties lie?"

Binky gaped incredulously. "_I_ do!" was his response.

"_Sure_ you do," said the principal. "But that's a matter for another time. Binky, since you have such an honest face, I'm going to accept your story at face value, and see to it that Slinky and Pinky get the punishment they deserve."

Binky smiled with elation. "Just don't tell 'em it was _me_ who tipped you off," he urged her.

"Cross my heart and hope to die," said the principal.

As he hurried from the principal's office, Binky felt as if one of his feet was walking on air. _Two down, two to go_, he told himself.

* * *

To be continued


	20. The Return of the Queen

The school day had ended. Among the throngs of children waiting at the curb for their rides sat Blake, his chin in his hands, looking bored and a little glum. Arthur and Buster, as they discussed their future plans (hanging out at the Sugar Bowl) next to the school entrance, noticed the presence of the rat boy and exchanged concerned glances. "He's just gonna sit there until seven, isn't he?" said Buster.

"Most likely," said Arthur. "Well, at least he has his thoughts to keep him company."

"No _wonder_ he looks so bored," remarked Buster.

Arthur shook his head. "Poor kid." Then an idea struck him. "Buster, are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"I think so, Arthur," said Buster, "but even _I_ couldn't eat a chocolate chip cookie _that_ big."

"No," said his aardvark friend. "We come back here at seven, and we meet Blake's dad."

Buster's response was a befuddled stare.

"I'm just curious," said Arthur with a shrug. "Maybe getting to know his dad will help us understand why he's the way he is."

"Yeah," said Buster, "but what if Mr. Robinson turns out to be an evil cyborg from another dimension?"

Arthur scowled.

"Notice I didn't say _alien_ cyborg," said Buster proudly.

Muffy suddenly bolted between them, in a hurry to reach the car where Wyatt and one of his mothers waited for her. "Hey, furry face," she said, deftly sliding into the back seat.

"Hi, Muff," said Wyatt, apparently in a dark mood.

"Something eating you?" said Muffy as she reached for the seat belt.

"It's bad news," said the poodle boy in the polo shirt. "You're not gonna like this."

"How bad can it be?" said Muffy nonchalantly.

* * *

Slinky and Pinky, sitting in consecutive desks, glared defiantly at the menacing rat woman who loomed before them. "I'm sure you're wondering why I've called you here," she said in a low, rumbling tone.

"Detention, _duh_," said Slinky.

"Only we didn't do anything," said Pinky, "so you don't have the right."

"_You're_ the one who has no rights, squash-head," said Principal Cameron, taking off her sleeveless jacket. "I received an anonymous tip that the two of _you_ carried out the fire-ant attack on Sue Ellen."

"Anonymous?" said Pinky incredulously. "Who?"

"That's for me to know," said the principal, "and you to _not_ find out."

"That's not fair!" Slinky protested. "I have a constitutional right to face my accuser!"

"Not here, you don't," said the angry-looking woman.

* * *

"They did _what?_" exclaimed Muffy in horror.

"The local affiliate pulled our _Magic Toolbox_ episode from the Friday schedule," said Wyatt matter-of-factly.

"I wasn't asking you to _repeat_ it," said Muffy. "How could they possibly do such a thing? It was my moment of glory! My fifteen minutes of fame! Well, _thirteen_ minutes, if you allow for that silly _And Now Let's Talk to Some Kids_ segment."

"We called the station," Wyatt related. "They told us they had received some complaints about the theme of the episode, but they wouldn't give us any specifics."

"Hmph," said Muffy, gripping her skirt with white knuckles. "What's there in the episode that anyone could find offensive? Misty's performance art of an azalea losing its flowers? Sadie's abstract painting of a squashed raccoon? The fact that all three of you were wearing _Save Darfur_ T-shirts?"

"The fact that all three of us are _gay_," said Wyatt flatly.

His words sank slowly into Muffy's brain. "Oh, I see," she began to grouse. "They don't want their kids to see a happy, successful gay family on television."

"Exactly," said Wyatt.

"What are they afraid of?" Muffy went on. "That their _kids_ will turn gay? It's hardly contagious. I've been going with you for months now, and I _still_ dream every night of marrying Nick Jonas."

* * *

Principal Cameron held her right hand behind her back as she spoke. "Have you ever been bitten by a fire ant, Slinky?" she asked the boy on the left. "Have you ever been bitten by a _dozen_ fire ants? Do you have any idea how that feels? Can you even _comprehend_ the pain you inflicted on poor Sue Ellen?"

Slinky grinned. "Next time it'll be scorpions," he said petulantly.

The principal's hand flew up. In it she clutched one end of a two-foot-long piece of rubber hose. "_This_ is what it feels like," she snarled like a rat woman possessed.

She took a swing. The hose's rough surface slammed into Slinky's temple. The sickening _smack_ echoed through the detention hall like a basketball fired from a cannon.

"Ow!" the boy wailed. "That hurt, you lousy bi—"

_Smack_. She slapped him again and again with the hose, devoting equal effort to both sides of his head. _Smack_. _Smack_.

* * *

A tiny tape recorder dangling from her wrist by a loop of string, Beat marched up the wooden stairway toward Prunella's attic, feeling cockier than ever. _I spent my lunch break googling Queen Victoria and studying the details of her reign_, she said to herself. _If George is trying to pull a fast one, I'll know it right away._

Amid the creaky rafters and ancient furniture she spotted the two rat sisters behind the crystal ball table, but no moose. "I'm here," she stated. "Where's George?"

"Uh," replied Prunella, "George backed out."

_Backed out_, Beat repeated in her mind. _He knows I can see through his charade._

"He called a few minutes ago," Rubella told her. "Said he was too creeped out to go on with it. Talked about broken mirrors, and a few occasions at school where he actually _spoke_ like the Queen."

"Uh-huh," said the rabbit-aardvark girl. "Can't say I buy into his excuses."

"I tried to convince him that learning of his past lives could be of great benefit to him," Rubella continued, "but he was still afraid. It's a common reaction." She sighed. "George will have to find his own path."

"Right," said Beat. "So, no hypnotism, no reason for me to stick around. _Au revoir_, ladies."

"Sorry to disappoint you," said Prunella.

She made ready to turn and leave, but an unexpected impulse stopped her. "Wait," she said earnestly.

The rat girls perked up their ears.

"Hypnotize _me_," said Beat.

_This is ridiculous. I don't believe in this hypno-rubbish. I could be doing next week's homework instead. So why am I here, sitting in front of this ruddy crystal ball, about to be put under? Am I really that starved for excitement?_

She pushed down the _Record_ button on her device. "I wonder what I'll say," she mused aloud.

"Something totally embarrassing, I hope," joked Prunella. "Now I'd like you to look deeply into my eyes. See how they sparkle in the candlelight, like a thousand tiny flames, dancing, dancing…"

"Dancing, dancing," Beat muttered.

"Very good," said Prunella. "Can you hear the flames, Beat? Can you hear their tiny voices calling you? Calling…"

Beat's eyelids drooped. She moaned faintly. At the instant it appeared sleep would overpower her, she suddenly sprang to alertness.

"Uh…what…" she stammered, alarmed by her surroundings. "Where…where am I? Oh, it's _this_ place again."

Prunella flashed an excited smile at her teenage sister.

Beat curiously examined the shape of her body. "Hmm, at least I'm a proper _female_ this time around."

"Hello," Prunella gently greeted her. "To whom am I speaking?"

Beat's face radiated wisdom and puzzlement. "Don't tell me you've forgotten already," she said. "We met yesterday."

The sisters traded unbelieving glances. "That's not possible," uttered Rubella.

"This place reeks of witchcraft," said Beat, gazing at the semi-transparent ball. "Are you witches, then? Have you summoned me to this place through exercise of the black arts?"

Astonished beyond words, the girls could only gape at her.

"I am Her Majesty the Queen," said Beat impatiently, "and I demand that you answer my question."

* * *

To be continued


	21. The Fateful Tape

Beat was certain she was dreaming, or hallucinating, or perhaps watching a fantasy movie in which she was a character. _This simply can't be happening_, she told herself over and over. Nonetheless, every time she rewound the tape and played it from the beginning, her reliable ears discerned what was incontrovertibly _her own voice_.

"This place reeks of witchcraft," she heard herself utter. "Are you witches, then?"

She shook her head wearily. "I've never used this kind of accent before," she told the equally astounded rat sisters. "I've never even _tried_. The only people who still talk this way are very old or dead."

"It doesn't make sense," marveled Prunella. "How can you and George _both_ be Queen Victoria?"

"It doesn't make sense for _either_ of us to be Queen Victoria," said Beat. "Yet here I am, in a live recording, _channeling_ her."

"England's going to hell in a handbasket," said the regal-sounding voice from the tape player. "If you don't believe me, take a walk in Whitechapel at night. Prostitutes. Dreadful creatures. I can't abide them."

"This," said Rubella optimistically, "is an unprecedented spiritual phenomenon. We've always assumed that a person leaves only one soul behind…but what if it's possible for a soul to divide and reproduce, like an amoeba?"

Beat took in a deep breath. "I've been having nightmares, just like George's," she admitted. "Buckingham Palace, royal vestments, murderous guards, the whole lot. I didn't tell you this before, because I didn't think it meant anything."

Rubella smiled sympathetically. "_Every_ dream means something," she stated.

"Right," said Beat. "So if I dream that I'm taking off my clothes in the girls' locker, and I suddenly discover that I've turned into a _boy_…what does _that_ mean?"

Prunella burst into laughter. Rubella merely nodded. "What it means," she replied, "is that you've been watching too many Japanese cartoons."

* * *

At her computer, Penny Simon was tapping out the final pages of the fantasy novel _Bad Demon! No Soul!_, the sequel to _Bad Dragon! No Damsel!_, _Bad Zombie! No Brain!_, and _No Gruel for You!_. Unsatisfied with the ending she had written, she reworked it yet again:

"_I came here to steal your soul, but in the end I gave you mine," said Eduardo, his horns sparkling in the moonlight. Della, as she stood on her toes to kiss his soft lips, no longer saw before her a being of darkness and damnation. Instead she saw a boy, a man, with razor-sharp teeth that melted her with their warm smile, and muscular, veiny arms that wrapped her in ecstasy. "I love you," she said again and again, never wanting to stop. She knew she would be his forever, and that their love, though forged in Hell, had been ordained by Heaven._

She clicked on the Print icon and leaned back in her chair. _This'll be a hit_, she assured herself. _A girl falling in love with a handsome demon? Who else but me could've thought of it?_

Into the paper-crammed apartment walked Beat, her nose pointed downward, her fingers firmly clutching the tape recorder as if fearing it would open up and bite her. "Hello, dear," said her mother. "How was school?"

"School?" said the girl crossly. "Oh, is _that_ where I've been for the past seven hours?"

Penny helped her daughter to lift the book bag from her shoulders. "Help yourself to tea and crumpets," she said tenderly, "and then you can take a nap, or watch telly, or whatever you like."

"I've got homework," Beat told her.

"Forget about it," said Mrs. Simon. "It won't hurt you to put it off until the last minute just _once_."

Beat dropped herself onto the couch and heaved a sigh. "Mum," she asked earnestly, "do you believe there's such a thing as reincarnation?"

"No, dear," her mother answered. "But a year ago I didn't believe in aliens, so…who knows?"

"I just found out," said Beat, rewinding the tape yet again, "that there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in my philosophy."

"Awww," said Penny wistfully. "My little girl's quoting Shakespeare."

Her little girl pressed the Play button. "Tell me what you think of this," she requested.

The sound of hypnotic suggestions filled the living room. "I see you've been to Prunella's," observed Mrs. Simon.

"Wait for it," said Beat.

Her voice emerged from the player: "I am Her Majesty the Queen, and I demand that you answer my question."

Mrs. Simon chuckled. "Why, Beatrice, I had no idea you could enunciate so well."

"Neither did _I_," said the girl.

They listened in silence to the interview between Prunella and the Queen. "I do so miss my Albert. He was only forty-two when he died. You'd think the heart of a queen would be made of stronger stuff…"

"This is brilliant," said Mrs. Simon, by this time on the couch by her daughter. "Is it a rehearsal for a play? Have you thought about becoming an actress?"

"Mum," said Beat forcefully, "I don't remember saying a word of this. I was under hypnosis."

"Hmm," said her mother. "Interesting." _Girls and their parlour games_, she thought.

Too tired and confused to do anything else, Beat laid belly-down on her mattress as the tape in her hand played through. "He goes among the prostitutes under the pretense of trying to 'reclaim the fallen women'," uttered her Victorian-inflected voice. "His wife is uneasy, and I can't say I blame her."

_I can't believe how uptight this lady is_, she mused. _Everything with her is morality, morality, morality. And she won't shut up about the prostitutes. Look, Your Majesty, if you'd just enact some social programs, they wouldn't have to resort to selling their bodies to put food on the table!_

An hour went by. Mrs. Simon, laboring over a noodle salad dinner, became increasingly annoyed with the Beat-Victoria ramblings that poured constantly from her daughter's bedroom. "Beatrice, dear, please turn off the tape," she called out.

She then resumed her cooking, but the queenly voice persisted: "It seemed only reasonable to take upon myself the title of Empress of India…"

"Beat, honey," she said, exasperated. "Is a bit of silence too much to ask for?"

"…by the authority of the British Crown…"

Her patience taxed to the limit, she rushed to Beat's room in hopes of discovering the reason behind the girl's obsession with the strange recording. To her surprise, the tape player sat on the bed beside Beat's motionless, face-down form, _turned off_.

"…the jurisdiction of the East India Company…" It was Beat herself, mumbling barely coherent words in a long-forgotten accent.

Mrs. Simon reached hurriedly for the girl, twisting her onto her back. Her limp body offered no resistance. "I'd prefer to wear black, thank you," she babbled, her eyes eerily unfocused.

"What's wrong, dear?" asked her mother.

"William Gladstone," said the uncomprehending Beat. "He always addresses me as if at a public meeting. Prostitutes…eating away at the Empire's moral hardwood like termites."

"Talk to me!" cried the panicked Mrs. Simon.

* * *

To be continued


	22. Muffy Goes to War

Arriving at the condo where she lived with her mother and little brother Tyson, Muffy marched towards her room with a determined gaze. "Hey there," said Mrs. Crosswire, who was reading the newspaper as Tyson played with blocks at her feet. "How was school? How was shopping?"

"No time for pleasantries," said the girl curtly. "I've got business."

"I hope that business is putting on sunscreen," said her mother. "Your shoulders are sunburned from wearing that dress. By the way, there's an ambulance in front of Beat's apartment building."

"Could be anyone," muttered Muffy, and she closed the door to seal herself off.

Francine was the first to receive her summons. As she and Jenna passed a football back and forth in the lawn outside Westboro Apartments, Mrs. Frensky called to her from a fifth-floor window. "Frankie, phone call! It's from Muffy!"

_It must be something vitally important_, thought Francine, rushing up the stairs with Jenna in tow. _Maybe she broke a nail…?_

Activating the speakerphone, she said, "Hi, Muffy, what's up?"

"Francine, we've got a situation," stated the girl on the phone.

_Yup…broken nail_. "What's the situation?" Francine asked her.

"You know the episode of _Magic Toolbox_ with me and Wyatt?" said Muffy. "The local PBS station dropped it from their schedule."

"Why did they do _that?_" Jenna chimed in.

"Some people complained to the station," replied Muffy, "that they didn't want to see a gay family in a children's educational show."

"Oh," said Francine. "Well, that's too bad. I know how much you were looking forward to seeing yourself on national TV, even if it _is_ PBS instead of _Project Runway_."

Jenna failed to contain her outrage. "That's totally wrong!" she exclaimed. "Shows like _Magic Toolbox_ should teach kids about _all_ different kinds of people, not just the ones their parents are comfortable with. Straight people, gay people, people with weirdly-shaped noses…"

"Uh, yeah," said Francine a bit sheepishly. "What she said."

"I thought you might feel that way, Francine," said Muffy, "and I believe most of my friends feel that way too. That's why I've decided to organize a protest."

* * *

The two paramedics hovered over Beat's prostrate body, bewildered by the symptoms she displayed. One of them pulled a thermometer from under her tongue and said, "Her temperature's normal, so we can outrule fever as the cause of her delirium. Does she currently take any medications?"

Mrs. Simon stood nearby, wringing her hands. "She takes hormones to control her accelerated puberty," she told them. "Other than that, nothing."

Beat, quieter than before, uttered something Victorian only twice a minute. "Rather than let Lord Melbourne write the speech, I decided to have a go at it myself," she mumbled.

"She seems to be getting all of this from the life of Queen Victoria," said her worried mother. "I think she's delusional. Could it be that Yordilian virus again? When I was infected with it, _I_ thought I was Margaret Thatcher."

"Try to remain calm, ma'am," said the other paramedic. "We'll give your daughter a full examination at the hospital, and we'll find out what's wrong with her."

"Could be lupus," suggested the first paramedic.

"It's _never_ lupus," retorted the second.

"I was only eighteen years old when I assumed the throne," said Beat obliviously.

* * *

"This is my bedroom," said Fern, who was leading Tabby on a tour of her dwelling. "It's not very stylish, but I've got a few redecoration ideas."

Tabby examined the bare walls. "It's like the Phantom Zone in here," she remarked. "I have an artist friend. He's good with acrylics, and he could redecorate this place with a Fall Out Boy theme. Picture it…Pete on one wall, Andrew on the other…"

She lowered herself onto Fern's bed, while Fern opted for the desk chair. "You know, in my own dimension we hid plastic explosives in my mattress," Fern related.

Tabby leaped up anxiously. "Omigod, that's _crazy!_ I mean, you roll over in your sleep, and _kaboom_."

"There are no explosives in _this_ mattress," said Fern, "so you're safe."

Sighing with relief, Tabby sat down again. "Seriously, your dimension sounds really rough. I wonder if there's a dimension somewhere…where Hallie's still alive."

"The way Alan explained it to me," said Fern, "is that whenever something can go one of two ways, there's one dimension for one way, and another dimension for the other way."

"Really," said Tabby thoughtfully. "There must be _hundreds_ of dimensions."

"Do you mind if I ask you something?" said Fern, her tone somber.

"Go ahead," said Tabby.

Fern paused. "Why do I never see you in the girls' locker?"

Tabby's jet-black hair suddenly appeared to turn blacker.

"I…don't dress down in the girls' locker," she admitted. "I do it somewhere else."

"Not in the _boys'_ locker, I hope," said Fern.

Tabby chuckled. "Not even. I have my own place."

"Why?" Fern pressed her. "Why can't you dress down with the rest of us girls?"

Palpable silence filled the room. Tabby remained mute.

"If it's too personal, you don't have to…" Fern began.

"I'm a never-nude," Tabby blurted out.

"A never-_what?_"

Tabby clutched her knees close to her chest. "It's a psychological thing," she said bashfully. "I can't stand to be naked around other people, even other girls."

As Fern's eleven-year-old mind struggled with the complications such a disorder might introduce into her friend's life, her cell phone rang. "Hello?"

"Fern, it's Muffy. Maybe you've heard, but the local PBS station's not going to air the _Magic Toolbox_ episode with me and Wyatt."

"Well, _that_ stinks," said Fern supportively. "What made them change their minds?"

Muffy explained the problem to Fern, who in turn made Tabby aware of it. "That's _awful!_" said the cat girl. "This is the 21st century…we shouldn't still be looking down at people who are different."

"Anyway," Fern informed her, "Muffy agrees, and she wants to get a protest going."

Tabby pondered the notion for a moment. "I like it," she concluded. "It's just a little bit self-serving on Muffy's part, but I'm totally in favor of it."

Fern stared blankly for a long moment.

"What about you?" said Tabby.

The poodle girl shrugged. "I don't know why Muffy even bothered to call me. She _knows_ I'm not the same Fern from before. I come from a place where aliens have enslaved everybody, and _she_ expects me to care about a few gay people snubbed by a TV station."

"Does the name Matthew Shepard mean anything to you?" asked Tabby.

Fern shook her head.

"He was a gay kid in Wyoming," Tabby went on. "Ten years ago he was beaten to death by some hoods. It was a hate crime—they targeted him because he was gay."

"Okay," said Fern. "What's he got to do with…"

"This," said Tabby excitedly, "may be just the thing you're looking for. True, you can no longer fight Yordies for the freedom of Earth, but there are people right here, in _this_ dimension, who are oppressed and persecuted because they're not like everyone else. I'm not just talking about gays. Christians in Iran, the people of Tibet under Chinese occupation, Democrats in Nebraska…"

"Why should I care?" Fern interrupted her. "None of that compares to what the Yordies subjected us to."

Tabby sighed hopelessly. "Oh, girl, girl. What's it going to take to make you happy? Does Earth have to be invaded in _this_ dimension?"

* * *

To be continued


	23. Intensive Care

In one of the suites of the Katzenellenbogan Memorial Hospital, Beat lay stretched out on a bed, unaware of her surroundings and raving periodically. "I shall endeavor to serve the people of the British Empire to the best of my ability…the tax on Indian salt is essential to British prosperity, and I shall oppose any attempt to repeal it…I hereby dub thee Sir Doctor of TARDIS…"

The attending doctor shook his head. "Her blood pressure's slightly elevated, but there doesn't appear to be anything else physically wrong with her," he told Mrs. Simon, who sat uneasily in a nearby chair. "Before I can administer any psychoactive drugs, I'll need you to sign a consent form."

"I'll sign anything you put before me," said the nervous aardvark woman. "Just make her better."

Into the hospital room burst her husband, wearing a navy blue suit and spotted tie. "I came as soon as I could, Penny," he said distractedly. "How's our daughter?"

"She's not in any immediate danger," the doctor assured him.

"Pleased to meet you," he said, extending a hand. "I'm Roger Rabbit…er, I mean, Roger Simon. What happened to her? Head trauma? Aneurysm?"

"There's no damage to her head that I can detect," the physician stated.

"I expect a certain level of decorum from the members of my court," uttered the stricken girl.

More visitors arrived—George and Alan this time. "Is this Beatrice Simon's room?" George inquired.

"You've come to the right place," said the doctor.

The two boys took up positions next to the bed where the patient rested. "Beat, can you hear me?" Alan called to her.

The girl's eyes didn't move. "That will be all, Lord Melbourne," she mumbled.

Alan clasped her immobile hand lovingly. "How long has she been this way?" he asked Beat's parents.

Penny stood up. "It all started with this tape," she said, holding up Beat's player. "Apparently Prunella hypnotized her, and they recorded the session. After listening to the tape over and over for about an hour, she started to display these symptoms."

"_Prunella_ did this?" said Alan with alarm.

"Let's see that tape," said the doctor. Mrs. Simon yielded it to him, and he pressed the Play button.

"I am Her Majesty the Queen." George and Alan paid strict attention. "I don't take kindly to being enchanted. Why have you brought me here?"

"Omigosh," said George, shaking his antlers. "Queen Victoria's inside _her_ now!"

"What?" said Alan.

"What?" said Penny and Roger Simon.

"Shut off the tape," George ordered the doctor, who quickly complied.

Alan turned to him with a somewhat frightened face. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking, George?"

"Yeah," said his friend. "This could be like that movie _The Ring_, with the ghost in the videotape that kills anybody who watches."

"Exactly," said Alan. "Only now it's a cassette tape, and anyone who listens to it turns into a Victorian zombie."

"I don't know," said George. "Maybe it only affects me and Beat, since we went on the Buckingham Palace trip together."

"We'd better call Prunella," Alan suggested.

"I'm on it," said George. Deftly grabbing Beat's cell phone from her belt, he punched in Prunella's number.

"Prufrock residence," answered a high-pitched voice with an odd English accent.

"Is Prunella there?" George spoke into the phone.

"_This_ is Prunella," said the girl, to his surprise.

"Why…why are you talking with an accent?" he asked.

"I'm _not_," replied the rat girl. "Why are _you?_"

George's eyes widened. _I just remembered something horrible…_

"Prunella," he inquired, "did you make a tape recording of Beat's hypnotism?"

"Indeed I did," she replied, her voice still tinged with Englishness. "It's a very curious item, it is. Would you like a copy?"

"How many times have you listened to it?" asked George, his concern growing.

"Five," said Prunella. "And every time I listen, the Queen's language seems less archaic and more understandable. Funny, that."

"Listen to me," said George earnestly. "You _must_ stop playing the tape. It's getting into your head."

"Getting into my head?" said Prunella incredulously. "Don't talk rubbish, George. A tape has no arms, or legs, or any means of transporting itself into my head."

George sighed with frustration. "'Getting into your head' is a figure of speech. You know that. You _used_ to know that. _You're_ the one talking rubbish."

"Am I, then?" said Prunella, offended.

"What year is this?" George asked her.

"Why, it's eighteen…" The voice on the line paused. "I mean, it's 2009."

George smiled elatedly.

"Very strange, that," said Prunella quietly. "For an instant I believed I was living in the 19th century."

"Like I said, it's the tape," George warned her. "Don't listen to it. _Destroy_ it."

While Prunella fumbled for an answer, the full-view mirror hanging on the wall of the hospital room suddenly shattered with a loud crackle.

"What the _hell?_" exclaimed the doctor.

"Blimey!" George heard Prunella cry. "My new mirror!"

The sound of falling shards of glass filled the entire hospital, from the first floor to the fifteenth. Physicians, nurses, and staff members looked on in bewilderment as _every_ mirror in the building—mounted, hand-held, or otherwise—spontaneously burst into pieces.

Drivers going by the hospital reacted with panic as their rear-view and side-view car mirrors fell apart without warning. In the furniture store across the street, salespeople screamed with fright as they found that the mirrors in the bedroom sets had been reduced to empty frames and scattered fragments. At the Dullard's store in the mall, ladies testing out dresses were startled when the mirrors in the changing rooms seemed to violently reject their new appearances. At the opera house, the broken remnants of the reflecting chandelier rained down upon the main floor. Bitzi Baxter, applying lipstick in preparation for a dinner date with a potential suitor, watched her mirror crack and dissolve with dismay.

It was like nothing the people had ever seen. The streets of Elwood City were running with _glass_.

Alan, confused, looked this way and that. "What just happened?" he wondered.

"I don't know," said George, "but it's not the _first_ mirror I've seen break on its own this week."

"Ah, my loyal subjects," intoned a voice from behind their backs.

Alan, George, and the Simons whirled. Beat was now sitting up, her expression one of perfect lucidity and utter calm. "I much prefer _this_ locale to that dark, musty old attic," she stated.

"Thank goodness, she's back to normal!" cried her mother with relief.

"Somehow…I doubt that," said George flatly.

* * *

To be continued


	24. Victoria's Secret

"Fetch me a mirror," commanded Beat/Victoria, climbing down from the hospital bed. "I'm dying to know what my new self looks like."

"A mirror?" The doctor fiddled with the glass shards on the floor, using the toe of his shoe. "That could be a problem."

As Alan and George looked on in amazement, Beat's parents confronted her. "You are _not_ Queen Victoria," said Mrs. Simon forcefully. "She's been dead for more than a hundred years. You're Beatrice Margaret Simon, you're ten years old, and you're our daughter."

Beat laughed mockingly. "You? My parents? A rabbit and an aardvark? Heavens, what would that make _me?_"

George stepped forward, fixing a stern gaze on her. "She's right. You're not the Queen…you're not even the Queen's _ghost_. Ghosts don't break mirrors every time they show up."

Beat scrutinized the moose boy's face. "I remember you," she said softly. "I was looking through _your_ eyes when I was first summoned by those young witches."

"Yeah," said George, nodding. "That was me."

She began to sashay across the hospital suite. "My temporary appearance notwithstanding, I assure you, I _am_ Victoria," she said proudly. "If it would convince you, I'd recite any one of my public speeches word for word…however, I'm sure it _wouldn't_ convince you, seeing that you're an American child of the far future, and your dreadfully poor educational system would've taught you nothing about me or my reign."

"Stop this now," said Mr. Simon, grabbing her shoulder. "You don't want to end up in a mental institution."

"My good sir," said the girl, "are you suggesting that I am insane? That's quite impossible. Insanity is a consequence of moral weakness, and I _have_ no moral weaknesses."

Alan nudged George with his elbow. "Let's get out of here," he whispered.

George was all too eager to follow him. Walking along the corridor past stretchers and baskets of dirty linen, Alan presented a question: "If she's not Victoria, and she's not Victoria's ghost, then who, or what, _is_ she?"

"I guess that's Victoria's secret," said George.

* * *

Seven o'clock drew near, and life was busy for Arthur and his friends. The aardvark boy and his friend Buster were purchasing snacks at the local GetGone store, preparing for their impromptu meeting with Blake's father. As Buster picked out a mega-sized rice square with marshmallows, chocolate chips, peanut butter, cherries, and gorgonzola cheese, he observed that the dome-shaped security mirror above his head had broken completely. "Check it out, Arthur," he said. "Now I can take whatever I want, and no one will see me."

"That would be stealing," said Arthur.

Buster grinned. "Still, I could, _hypothetically._"

"You'd better get two of those," said Arthur, referring to the rice squares.

"Why?" said Buster. "You think Blake'll want one?"

"No," replied Arthur. "I think _you'll_ want _two_."

Treats and sodas in their hands, they strolled away to the middle school, where the lonely-looking Blake sat by himself on the curb. "Geez, has he even _moved?_" marveled Buster, his mouth full of candy.

"Yo, Blake," said Arthur, taking his place at the boy's right side. "Buster and I thought we'd keep you company until your dad shows up."

"Uh, that's cool," said Blake, looking back and forth between the boys.

"Would you like a mega-sized rice square with marshmallows, chocolate chips, peanut butter, cherries, and gorgonzola cheese?" Buster asked him.

"Sure," replied Blake.

"So would I," said Buster, gazing wistfully at the empty wrappers in his hand.

* * *

At Muffy's condo, meanwhile, a number of volunteers had assembled to organize a protest on behalf of Wyatt's family. Quite by coincidence, all of the volunteers turned out to be girls—Francine, Jenna, Sue Ellen, Fern, Tabby, and Mavis. "I'd like to thank you all for coming," said Muffy to the seated throng. "I guess you're all aware of why we're here."

"Slumber party!" cried Mavis, pumping her fists.

"That's a good answer," said Muffy, "but it's not the one I'm looking for."

Fern leaned over to Tabby and muttered, "I don't know what I'm doing here."

"Give it a chance," the emo girl urged her.

Muffy stood up before them. "Public television, my friends," she said in a stately tone. "What's the first thing that enters your mind when you hear those words? Quality children's programming? British comedies? _Masterpiece Theatre?_ Well, my friends, I've recently come to associate _another_ word with public television. It's a shameful word. A dirty word. It's the word…_phobohomia_."

The girls stared at her, obviously confused.

"I got it wrong, didn't I?" she said sheepishly. "Hobophonia? Homosapia?"

"_Homophobia_," Fern blurted out impatiently.

Muffy grinned. "Thank you, Word Girl."

"Excuse me," said Jenna, raising her hand, "but what can a few kids like us do against WELD? Don't they have, like, millions of dollars? They could tie us up in court for _years_, and by that time it'll be too late to show the episode."

"Don't be silly," said Sue Ellen. "Public TV stations are always broke. That's why they have to beg _us_ to send them money."

"Sue Ellen's right," said Muffy. "If we want to change their minds, we'll have to hit them where it hurts the most."

"In the _butt!_" Francine chimed in.

"In the _pocketbook_," said Muffy.

Tabby waved her hand. "I'll ask my artist friend to make us some posters," she offered. "I've already come up with a slogan—_Stop Killing Matthew Shepard_. And below the words, a silhouette of a man tied to a fence, with lots of grays and dark blues."

"Right," said Muffy, grimacing slightly. "I, uh, don't think we need to be _that_ creative."

* * *

At the same time, George and Alan were discussing Beat's condition with Mrs. Prufrock and her daughters. The psychic rat woman's long nose was buried in an ancient tome entitled, _Merda Phasmatis Insana_. "I have to agree with Rubella," she said. "This sort of phenomenon has never before been recorded in the annals of spiritualism. We're stepping into a whole new world."

"What do the _vibrations_ tell you, Mum…I mean, Mom?" asked Prunella.

"Oddly enough," said Mrs. Prufrock, "I'm not sensing anything out of the ordinary, vibration-wise. Which could mean that nothing's there, _or_ that the vibrations are so powerful, they cover the entire spectrum."

"What if it's not spiritual at all?" mused Alan. "What if it's some kind of weird science, like an audio tape with signals that overwrite someone's personality? I know it sounds crazy, but my sister Tegan used to be able to do that _without_ the aid of technology."

"Here's something to consider," said Prunella. "If Beat's tape-recorded Victoria voice could warp my mind and make me think I was in Victorian England, then what can her _real_ voice do to people?"

"Omigosh, you're right," said George. "I'd better call the Simons and make sure they're okay."

The digital phone on Mr. Simon's desk beeped repeatedly. Rather than pick it up, the long-eared professor stared dumbly at it. "What an odd sound," he said, speaking in a rough Cockney brogue. "What does it mean, Your Majesty?"

Beat, wearing her fanciest dress, curiously lifted the receiver and dropped it. "It appears to be an advanced version of Bell's telephone," she opined. "My guess is, there's someone on the other end of the line, hoping for an audience with the Queen." She held the receiver up to her ear, but heard only a dial tone. "Apparently not."

* * *

To be continued


	25. Mind Probe

A scratched-up Civic with a bent rear fender rolled to a stop by the curb where Blake, Arthur, and Buster waited. "That's my pa," Blake informed the other boys. "I gotta go now."

Arthur and Buster stood up with him. "That's him?" said Arthur, peering curiously through the window. Both of the side-view mirrors were broken, the passenger seat had a deep gash in the upholstery, and the driver, incongruously, was wearing a neat-looking suit and tie.

The man with the pointy nose used a crank to bring the window down. "I see you've made some new friends, Blake," he said, his tone refined and polite.

"Hi, Mr. Robinson," said Buster. "I'm Buster Baxter, and this is Arthur Read. We're Blake's classmates."

"It's nice to meet you boys," said the man, as Blake stepped around the front of the car. "I hope you're getting along well with my son."

"It's been uneventful so far," said Arthur.

"I'll see you later," said Blake's father, and he quickly drove away.

Arthur stood motionless, watching the Civic depart. "Well, that was a surprise," he remarked. "I was expecting a hairy, smelly guy, like Bigfoot."

"Anyone who puts on a suit just to pick up his kid is okay in _my_ book," said Buster.

"How did a nice, clean guy like him end up with a kid like Blake?" Arthur wondered. "Maybe he got it from his mother."

They turned towards their respective homes. "There's something else I don't get," said Buster, walking along hungrily. "Instead of sitting on the sidewalk for three hours, why didn't he just _walk_ home? How far away must he live?"

"I thought of that too," said Arthur. "What's to stop him from taking the bus? Maybe there's no bus that goes from Woodlake to his house."

"But the school buses go _everywhere_," observed Buster. "There's no escape."

Arthur walked quietly for a moment or two, and had a sudden flash of insight. "Buster," he said seriously, "I think Blake's going to the wrong school."

Not far ahead of them, a brave band consisting of Prunella, George, Alan, and Alan's teenaged sister Tegan was crossing the street. Ahead of them loomed the building where Beat and her parents lived. "Remember, everyone," said George, "if Beat tries to talk to you, don't listen. Interrupt her. Drown her out."

"I don't understand," said Tegan, who wore a pale green tank top and jeans. "Does she have bad breath or something?"

"Worse than bad breath," said George.

"She's been possessed by an entity that claims to be Queen Victoria," Prunella explained. "Her voice mesmerizes people. A _tape_ of her voice mesmerized _me_."

"What kind of an entity?" asked Tegan as she held open the entrance door for the others. "Wait, I guess if you knew the answer to that, you wouldn't need _me_."

Halfway up the second-floor stairway, Prunella turned to Alan and inquired, "What _do_ we need Tegan for?"

"_You_ tell her," said Alan to his sister.

Tegan pressed the Simons' doorbell. "Don't spread it around," she said softly, "but my brain powers aren't _completely_ gone—I've regained some of my telepathic ability."

"_What?_" said Prunella with alarm.

"_That's_ why I asked you to not spread it around," said Tegan.

The door opened, and Mr. Simon stared at them with a vacant expression. "Who wishes to speak to Her Majesty?" he said officiously, sounding to them like a character from a Monty Python sketch.

Tegan probed the man with her eyes. "Roger Simon's nowhere in there," she declared.

"Omigosh, it's worse than I thought," said Prunella under her breath.

Alan stepped forward boldly. "Mr. Simon, you can't seriously believe that your daughter is really Queen Victoria. She's much younger, she's much shorter, _and_ she has rabbit ears."

"Watch your tongue, lad," was the man's stern warning. "'Tis treason to speak so."

"Treason?" said Alan with an incredulous chuckle. "And the penalty for that is what? Death? Does Her Majesty have access to a guillotine?"

"I shall let the Queen herself deal with you," said Mr. Simon.

He stepped aside, making way for Beat to appear in her regal glory. "You have my leave to enter," she stated.

A bit reluctantly, Tegan, Alan, Prunella, and George followed her into the apartment. Nudging his sister, Alan asked, "Are you sensing anything from her?"

"Yes," whispered Tegan, "but I can't make out what it is. I need to concentrate."

Beat addressed them in a mature tone. "You are not yet convinced that I am the very Queen. These two peasants, who once claimed to be my parents, have seen me for who I truly am. In time, so will you."

"I wouldn't count on it, _Vicky_," said George. "You can't get inside our heads if we don't _listen_ to you."

Beat took a deep breath. "In that case, I must…"

"FOUR SCORE AND SEVEN YEARS AGO OUR FATHERS BROUGHT FORTH UPON THIS CONTINENT A NEW NATION CONCEIVED IN LIBERTY…" George shouted at the top of his lungs.

"You impudent boy!" Beat scolded him, but he only ranted more loudly.

"Quiet, please!" said Tegan. "I'm trying to concentrate!"

"THE BRAVE SOULS LIVING AND DEAD WHO STRUGGLED HERE…" George went on heedlessly.

Beat, enraged, motioned for her mother to assist. "Silence that child!" she ordered, and Mrs. Simon wasted no time in clapping a hand over George's mouth.

"Anything yet?" Alan pressed the glassy-eyed Tegan.

"It's…it's unbelievable," the girl marveled. "It's so vast…so powerful…"

Beat regarded her with interest. "Vast? Powerful? You speak, perhaps, of the British Empire?"

"No," said Tegan, glaring at her with anger and terror. "You're not the Queen. You're a _thing_, willed into existence by millions of minds, never meant to exist on the physical plane. You're a thought-form. An _egregore_."

"You see me as some sort of monster," said Beat, shaking her head condescendingly, "but the _true_ villain is the impostor who has usurped my throne."

"Impostor?" said Alan.

"Impostor?" said Prunella.

Beat seized the rat girl by the chin. "_You_, young enchantress," she said menacingly, "shall restore me to the throne using the same magic by which you summoned me here."

"No, she won't!" cried Alan, swatting her hand away from Prunella.

This only served to incense Beat. "Seize him!" she bellowed.

Without a moment's pause, Mr. Simon reached forward and caught Alan's arms in a tight grasp. Unable to wriggle free, and seeing that George was bound as well, he turned his attention to the girls. "Prunella! Tegan! Get out of here! Get help!"

Prunella eagerly obeyed, fleeing the apartment with incredible speed. Tegan, on the other hand, remained still as a statue, her face suggesting confusion.

Alan tugged vainly against Mr. Simon's hold. "Tegan?" he called to his sister. "What's the matter?"

To his and George's horror, Tegan slowly but steadily lowered herself onto one knee, bowing her head contritely before Beat. "Your Majesty," she drawled.

* * *

To be continued


	26. The Power of Prunella Compels You!

"Tegan, don't give in!" Alan cried to his sister.

She looked at him with bemusement. "Who be Tegan?" she inquired. "And what be this place? It don't look like Yorkshire."

"How curious," said Beat, approaching her. "One moment you're a skeptical American girl of the 21st century, the next you're talking like a Yorkie."

Tegan knelt again. "Have mercy, m'lady," she pleaded. "I didn't recognize you."

"Tegan!" Alan fought against Mr. Simon's grip, but to not avail. "Snap out of it! This isn't _My Fair Lady!_"

"What's your name, dear?" Beat asked the girl with the bowed head.

"It's Sarah, it is," she replied. "Beggin' your pardon, m'lady, but perhaps you can explain why I've been transformed into a strange girl?"

George, held tight by Mrs. Simon, did his best to learn towards Alan. "The same thing's gonna happen to _us_," he whispered. "It's like people from Victorian England are taking over our bodies in the present day."

"Whoever she is," said Alan, "she can't be stupid enough to mistake Beat for the Queen, unless it's some kind of projected hallucination."

"So what's an egregore?" George asked him.

"It's…" Alan lowered his head to think. "It's a concept from the occult. An egregore is a psychic being that embodies the shared desires or goals of a group of people. The best example I can think of is that black oily creature from _Star Trek: The Next Generation_."

"Oh, yeah," George recalled. "It was made up of all the discarded evil from an alien race that achieved perfection."

"Your Majesty," Mrs. Simon called to Beat, "what is to be done with these troublesome boys?"

"Throw them in the dungeon," the girl commanded.

While Alan and George glanced around in terror, the Simons glanced around in confusion.

"That was a joke," said Beat.

"Listen to me, whoever you are," Alan addressed the Queen. "Your _voice_ is brainwashing people into thinking they're Victorians, so I suggest you stop using it."

Beat gave Tegan an affectionate pat on the head, and looked over at Alan. "Fiddle-faddle," she said flippantly. "You have no evidence to support your claim. Why, Tegan here was in my presence for a mere few seconds before she turned into Sarah."

"Who's Sarah?" said Tegan, using a different accent altogether. "My name's Christine."

Beat gaped at her. "But…but just a moment ago…"

"But if you _wish_ to call me Sarah, that's your prerogative," said Tegan. "You're the Queen, after all."

"This is getting weirder and weirder," remarked George.

"Indeed," said Beat, nodding. "But this is not of my doing. It may well be a consequence of the magical machinations of your friend, Prunella."

"Prunella does _not_ have magical powers," insisted George. "She's just a regular girl."

Alan turned his head toward the man restraining him. "Who are _you_ really?" he inquired.

"No one of importance," he replied. "I was working at the Barrow-in-Furness steel mill, and then I was suddenly here, with the Queen."

"She doesn't look like the Queen to _me_," said Alan.

"Nor to me," said Mr. Simon, "but I know she's the Queen, because…because when I see her, I see the Queen in my head."

"And you?" said Alan, glaring at the lady of the house.

"I'm…" Mrs. Simon searched her mind. "I…I can't seem to remember. Maybe the Queen can tell me."

_They're a mishmash of Victorian personalities_, thought Alan. _Allegiance to the Queen is the only thing they have in common._

"Release the prisoners," Beat ordered her subjects. "Christine, guard the door. I should like to interrogate them."

The Simons took their hands away, leaving Alan and George free to mill around.

She questioned George first. "You say Prunella has no magic. How, then, did I come to be here? By means of a time machine, perhaps?"

_I can't let her talk_, thought George. "Yeah, that's right. A time machine, which I invented in my garage. I'm a child genius, you know. In the 21st century _all_ children are geniuses. Time travel is very simple, you see. All you do is divide the time whopperschnatz by the sum of the ionized blumbergoo particle frequencies…"

"Silence!" shouted Beat. "We are not amused."

Alan wandered nonchalantly to the spot where Tegan stood. "By order of the Queen, you are not to leave the premises," said the girl emotionlessly.

"Am I to understand," said Alan, "that you're part of an egregore created from the psychic impulses of the people of Victorian England?"

"I know not of what you speak," she replied.

"Does that mean Charles Dickens is in there?" said Alan curiously. "Florence Nightingale? Robert Louis Stevenson? Charles Darwin?"

"Not in here," she said curtly. "In a library, maybe."

_She's very ticklish_, thought Alan. _I'd have to move quickly, though…_

A knock came at the door. "I bring a gift for the Queen!" exclaimed a girlish voice from the other side.

Beat/Victoria lit up. "Ah, our friend Prunella has returned. Do show her in, Christine."

Alan stepped back, allowing Tegan to open the way for Prunella to enter. The rat girl was supporting an object behind her back with both hands.

"Come in, come in," the Queen beckoned her. "Although this isn't the proper protocol for presenting a gift to Her Majesty, I'll forgive you this once. Let me see it, then."

Alan and George held their breaths as they watched. Prunella, with a triumphant grin, pulled the object forward and held it up for the Queen to behold.

It was a reflecting ball made of polished stainless steel.

At the sight of her distorted reflection, Beat screamed in wide-eyed agony.

She backed away, wailing with fear. Prunella persisted, sticking the shiny ball in front of her aardvark nose whichever way she turned. Tegan and the Simons, rather than assist her, stood rock-still as if entranced.

"Alan! George!" cried Prunella. "Help me! Make her look!"

Beat leaned against the fractured glass of the closet door, her eyes closed, her face pointed away, her fists lashing out at Prunella's ball. The boys rushed to accost her, George seizing her arms, Alan reaching through her ears to grasp her eyelids and yank them open. Beat yelped helplessly, her tear-moistened eyes forced to look upon the curved reflecting surface.

"Get out of her body!" yelled Prunella. "Get out, and I'll take it away!"

Beat made no answer, but struck at George and Alan with elbows, feet, and any other part of her that would move. Again and again she screamed, until the sound ceased to come out. Open-eyed, open-mouthed, she unexpectedly went limp and slumped backwards into Alan's arms.

He gently lowered her onto the carpet. "How'd you know she was afraid of her reflection?" he asked Prunella.

The girl shrugged. "Must've had something to do with all the mirrors she destroyed."

"Uh, guys?" George chimed in.

He directed their attention to Beat's upturned face, which remained frozen in an unblinking expression of pain and despair.

"Uh-oh," said Alan. Dropping onto his knees, he grabbed the fallen girl's wrist and checked for a pulse.

"Is she…all right?" asked Prunella, her voice quivering with worry.

Seconds passed. Alan let Beat's arm slip to the floor. "Somebody call 911," he said quietly but firmly.

* * *

To be continued


	27. Clear!

Alan tenderly pressed his lips against Beat's.

He blew air into her mouth, watching through the corner of his eye as her chest inflated and fell. He locked lips with her again, providing her with another much-needed breath.

The next step was the most embarrassing. In order to locate Beat's solar plexus, he was required to unfasten her dress and pull the blouse all the way up to her neckline; as he did so, he beheld in all their glory the things that made her different from most girls her age. He shuddered. _She couldn't have picked a worse time to forget her training bra._

Still, the procedure had to continue. He applied his wrist to the recommended spot on Beat's chest, laid his left hand over his right, and pressed down repeatedly as he counted. _One…two…three…_

Prunella watched him with tear-filled eyes as he made his way to thirty. "Omigod, I killed her," she moaned. "I killed Beat. I shouldn't have held the ball in front of her face for so long."

"Don't cry," George urged her. "The ambulance will be here any minute now. She'll be fine…I think."

Alan puffed air into Beat's lungs twice more, but the girl proved unresponsive. As he started another set of thirty chest compressions, Tegan and the Simons snapped out of their reveries. "What…?" said Tegan, unsure of where she was. "What's going on?"

"I must have blacked out," said Mr. Simon, his hand over his forehead. "What time is it?"

His wife checked her wristwatch. "It's almost eight o'clock," she stated. "We've lost _hours!_"

Roger then turned his gaze to Alan and Beat, who from his perspective appeared to be in a compromising position. "Beatrice!" he exclaimed. "What are you doing to my girl?"

Alan looked up quickly. "It's called CPR. I learned how to do it in fifth grade."

Penny, alarmed beyond reason, suddenly felt her EMT training kick in. "That's good, Alan," she said, brushing the boy away from her daughter, "but I'll take over now."

_Be my guest_, thought Alan, relieved. Walking over to his sister, he inquired, "Are you all right?"

"Yes," replied the somewhat dizzy Tegan. "What happened? One moment I was probing Beat's mind, the next moment she's on the floor."

"You were taken over by the egregore," Alan informed her. "First you were Sarah from Yorkshire, then you were Christine, and after that, I don't know."

Tegan surveyed the apartment. "At least Penny and Roger are normal again," she said elatedly. "What's the matter with Beat? Why's her mom administering CPR?"

"She collapsed," replied Alan. "Prunella went and grabbed the gazing ball from her garden, and we forced Beat to stare at her own reflection until she couldn't take it anymore."

"That was very clever," said Tegan. Moving to where Mrs. Simon knelt, she peered intently at the stricken girl.

"What do you sense?" Alan asked her.

She shook her head dolefully. "Nothing."

They were shortly visited by two paramedics, who attached a device with paddles to Beat's bare chest. "Clear!" shouted one of the men, and the other activated the defibrillator, sending a jolt of electricity through the girl's stopped heart.

Alan clenched his fists. "You've got to come back," he muttered desperately. "You've just _got_ to."

"It's my fault," said Prunella, wiping her cheeks with a handkerchief. "What was I thinking? I don't know the first thing about exorcisms."

"Clear!" the medic cried again. His partner applied another shock to Beat, who continued to show no sign of life.

"How long does it take?" the semi-panicked George asked no one in particular. "How do you know when she's gone for good?"

"Don't talk that way," Mr. Simon scolded the moose boy. "Beat has her whole life ahead of her. She'll pull through."

"Please, God," said Mrs. Simon, her hands clasped. "Please, God, please, God…"

Her husband shot her a condescending glare. "Why don't you pray to Gandalf while you're at it?"

Such was the tension in the room that the paramedics were soon the only people breathing. For the fifth time they jolted Beat's body in an attempt to revive her. A second or two passed, and the medic kneeling at her side cocked his head so that his ear was even with her mouth and nose.

"I hear breathing," he announced. "It's shallow, but it's there."

Beat's chest filled up slowly, almost imperceptibly. Joy seized the hearts of her young friends. "She's alive!" cried Prunella. "I'm not a murderer!"

"Is she gonna make it?" George asked the paramedics.

"It's too soon to say," one of them answered. "She needs immediate hospital care."

Beat's head wobbled. She blinked weakly. Her mouth fell open, but no words came out.

"Whatever's wrong with her," said Mrs. Simon, "I'm sure it can't be worse than thinking she's Queen Victoria."

Tegan, her eyes still fixed on Beat, suddenly went pale.

"What's wrong?" asked her brother.

"It's…" she stammered, shaking nervously. "It's still inside of her."

"No!" cried Prunella. Her face grim with determination, she searched the floor until she located the reflecting ball.

"Not again!" said George, restraining her with a hand on her shoulder. "We almost _killed_ her the first time."

"Are you _sure_ about that, Tegan?" said Alan, sounding a bit frantic.

His sister nodded. "We didn't kill it. We only wounded it…and now it's _angry_."

* * *

To be continued


	28. Early Birds

George, Prunella, Alan, and Tegan discussed their options as they watched the paramedics load Beat onto a stretcher. "All we need now is a way to get the egregore out of her body without killing her in the process," said Tegan. "I'm open to any suggestions. Prunella, does your mom have any experience dealing with egregores?"

"I'll ask her," said Prunella, and she began to scurry away.

"Wait!" George called to her. "Don't forget to destroy the tape."

"I won't," the rat girl assured him. Within moments she was out of sight.

George then addressed the Simons. "The Queen and the people she controls don't know how to use modern technology," he stated. "Therefore, if we destroy the tapes, she won't have any way to make recordings of her voice and infect people with them."

"Good thinking," said Mrs. Simon. Popping open the tape player that sat on the dining table, she passed the tape Beat had listened to into the hands of George.

"Even without recordings, her voice could reach a lot of people," Tegan pointed out. "Mr. Simon, can you give me an idea of the population of England at the end of the 19th century?"

"About thirty million," the man replied.

"I'm speculating here," Tegan went on, "but if Egregoria is an embodiment of the people of England near the end of the Victorian era, then it's reasonable to suppose that she could easily control millions of people at once."

"Huh?" said Alan. "Egregoria?"

"Egregore, Victoria," said Tegan with a grin. "Egregoria."

"That's crazy," said George, idly rotating the tape in his hand. "What's she gonna do, audition for _American Idol?_"

"So far, she doesn't seem all that powerful," remarked Alan.

"True," said Tegan. "But when I probed her, I had the feeling that she hasn't yet fully emerged into our plane of existence."

"So when she _does_ fully emerge," George wondered, "what does that mean for Beat? For the _world?_"

* * *

The alarm clock roused George at six a.m. the following morning. His first act, even before yawning and stretching, was to hurry to the phone and call Mrs. Simon's cell number. "Penny Simon speaking," the woman greeted him.

"Hi," he said drowsily. "How's Beat?"

"There's no change in her condition," she told him. "She's conscious and aware of her surroundings, but she hasn't spoken, or given any indication that she recognizes me."

"Okay," said George. "I'll talk to you later." He put down the receiver, thinking, _It's only a matter of time before Egregoria comes roaring back, seeking revenge._

On his desk, not far from his faithful dummy Wally, lay the sinister tape. He sat down and fixed his gaze on it. He began to think, and on this occasion his thoughts took the form of a conversation with the dummy.

"So," said Wally, draped over George's hand, "are you gonna destroy the tape, or not?"

"I don't know," replied the boy. "I have an idea. It might work, or it might horribly backfire."

"My money's on 'horribly backfire'," said the wooden giraffe. "Egregoria's bigger than you. She's bigger than _all_ of us."

"But Beat's depending on me," said George.

"No, she's not," retorted Wally. "She's depending on the fine men and women at Katzenellenbogan Memorial Hospital."

George let out a discouraged sigh.

"You already know how this ends," said the dummy insistently. "Beat gets locked up, or maybe killed. Either way, the world's safe from Egregoria."

"I can't let that happen!" said George, and he pounded his free fist on the desk.

* * *

George, it turned out, wasn't the only early riser in the neighborhood. Sue Ellen arose prompty at six a.m., hopped into the bathtub, hopped _out_ of the bathtub, threw on a dress, brushed her teeth, brushed her hair, and tied it with scrunchies. "So long, Mom," she said, lunch pail in hand. "I'm going to school early so I can get more studying done."

"I love your attitude," said Mrs. Krantz.

Jenna awoke at the same time, put on some clothes, ate a bowl of oatmeal, and left home without bothering to even wash her hairs.

Tabitha's eyes flew open at the stroke of six. The mirror in her room having shattered the previous day, she dangled a few locks of her hair in front of her eyes, concluding that they were orderly enough and black enough to be presentable.

"Only half a bowl of Alpha Bits?" Mrs. Graves said to her at the breakfast table. "Aren't you hungry?"

"Not very," replied Tabby. "Besides, I told Fern I'd meet her at 6:30."

Her mother leaned over and grinned facetiously. "I've noticed lately that you don't have much of an appetite. You _used_ to eat like a boy."

"That's not funny, Mom," said Tabby.

* * *

Muffy, in her nightgown, shuffled into the kitchen. "Good morning, cupcake," said her mother, who had taken to calling her 'cupcake' instead of 'muffin' ever since splitting up with her father.

"Hi, Mom," grumbled the girl. "I overslept."

Mrs. Crosswire gaped. "Overslept? It's six o'clock."

Muffy dragged herself onto a chair. "I _meant_ to wake up at five, wash and braid my hair, polish my nails, and put on some cucumber lotion," she said. "After all, a girl should look her best when fighting oppression."

Her mother nodded and took a sip of coffee. "Francine called," she informed Muffy. "She can't make it to the protest."

The monkey girl's face fell a bit. "_That's_ disappointing," she remarked. "But she must have a good reason. What did she say was the reason?"

"She didn't give a reason," said Mrs. Crosswire. "She just told me she couldn't make it."

Muffy rubbed her chin, deep in thought. "Hmm…she wouldn't give a reason, and she called my _mother_ instead of calling me _directly_. Curiouser and curiouser. I suppose she could've gone to the hospital to check on Beat…no, it must be something she's embarrassed about, or else she would've told me. Francine tells me _everything_."

"Maybe she has a boyfriend," Mrs. Crosswire suggested.

"Don't be silly," said Muffy. "When Francine has a boyfriend, _I_ know it before _she_ does."

* * *

Next chapter: A startling revelation!


	29. Out! Out!

The bus trip to the WELD office building on the north side of Elwood City required over half an hour. The girls disembarked near the building's parking lot, fully aware that the bold step they were taking would require sacrifices, such as being late for school.

"Since we didn't have time to prepare any picket signs, we'll have to take the direct approach," said Muffy to Jenna, Fern, Sue Ellen, Tabby, and Mavis. "This may result in some of us being arrested. If any of you has a prior criminal record and doesn't want to be embarrassed, a bus will be along in about five minutes to take you home."

The other girls didn't budge. "We're with you all the way, Muffy," said Mavis.

"Let's do this," said Tabby.

"Onward!" cried Muffy with a raised fist. The girls marched toward the entrance doors, chanting, "We shall overcome! We shall overcome!"

Tabby beamed with delight at Fern, who was singing along with the others. "You've really got the spirit," she remarked. "Last night you weren't so sure. What changed?"

The poodle girl smiled. "I slept on it," she said simply.

Into the building, and up to the reception desk, swarmed the six girls from Woodlake Middle School. The receptionist, an aardvark lady with curly blond hair, regarded them with a bit of surprise. "How can I help you?" she inquired.

Muffy stood at the forefront. "We want to talk to the program manager," she said maturely.

"I'll see if he's available," said the woman. Pressing a button on her phone, she spoke, "Craig, some little girls are here to see you. Do they have an appointment?"

While the receptionist was thus occupied, Sue Ellen crept over to the directory posted on the wall. "First floor, accounting," she muttered quietly. "Second floor, production. Third floor, staff offices. President, vice president, program manager…room 326."

The lady at the desk frowned at her guests. "He's in a meeting right now," she informed them. "Would you like me to leave him a message?"

"No," said Muffy, shaking her head. "We'll come back later. Thanks."

As they turned to depart, Mavis struck a lily-filled vase with her elbow, sending it plummeting to the floor. The soggy crash startled the receptionist. "What the…" she exclaimed, bolting upwards.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," said Mavis, feigning horror. "I didn't even see it there. Ever since the retinal transplant, my eyesight isn't what it used to be."

The woman rounded the desk, kneeling to pick up the scattered flowers. "Retinal transplant?" she marveled. "Really? A girl your age?"

"That's right," said Mavis, as her companions tiptoed into a corridor and out of sight. "I had retinitis pigmentosa, and I was going blind."

"Oh, that's terrible," said the lady sympathetically. "My name's Bertha. What's yours?"

The hallway was quiet and mostly vacant; the accountants laboring in their offices paid no heed to the strange girls that sneaked past. "This is easy," Tabby whispered to the others. "_Too_ easy. I'll bet there are ninjas guarding the elevators."

"Sue Ellen will take 'em out," said Fern jokingly.

"No, I won't," said the cat girl.

The elevator doors opened, and a finely-dressed woman with a pearl necklace appeared before them. "Hello, there," she said sweetly. "Are you part of a field trip?"

"Uh, yes, we are," replied Muffy.

"It's a little bit early, isn't it?" said the woman.

"We wanted to avoid the crowds," Jenna chimed in.

The lady chuckled and walked past them. "Let's go," said Muffy, leading her troops into the elevator, which would barely accommodate the five of them.

Fern found herself face-to-face with Tabby in the small chamber as it rose. "Isn't this exciting?" said Tabby with a grin.

Fern looked sheepish. "Yeah, it is. I can hardly control myself."

The girls spilled out as the doors opened, and saw the entrance to room 326 gaping at them not far away. The plaque attached to the wall read, _Craig Johnson, WELD Program Director_. "He's our man," said Muffy. "Now remember, now matter how much he threatens, no matter how much he blusters, don't let him see your fear."

"_What_ fear?" said Sue Ellen.

"Let's kick his butt," said Jenna playfully.

Emboldened by their unimpeded progress, they strolled with heads high into the program director's cherry-paneled office. The bespectacled old man looked up from his computer monitor. "Oh, hi," he said in a gravelly voice. "I wasn't expecting school children."

"Mr. Johnson," said Muffy, peering forcefully into his eyes, "we represent the children of Elwood City, and we have an urgent matter to discuss with you."

"I see," said the oldster. "Does this have to do with the Model U.N. conference?"

"No, sir," she replied. "It involves a certain episode of _Magic Toolbox_, intended to educate children about performance art, and featuring a family with lesbian parents."

Mr. Johnson nodded. "Yes, I know the one."

"I understand that you made a decision not to air the episode, due to some parents' concerns that it depicted an offensive lifestyle," Muffy went on.

The man stood up slowly, revealing his portliness. "I wouldn't put it in exactly those words, but…yes, the decision was made, but I wasn't involved. If you have concerns, you'll have to talk to someone higher than me."

"_Higher_ than you?" Sue Ellen blurted out. "But there are only three floors in the building."

The director prepared to speak, but Muffy leaned forward, slamming her hands onto the surface of his desk. "_You_ are the program director," she snapped. "You decide what goes on the air, and what doesn't. So don't try to give me the runaround. I am Muffy Crosswire, of Crosswire Motors, and my father is a powerful man."

Johnson surveyed the mob of girls. "All right, all right, it _was_ my decision," he admitted. "And if you want to know the whole truth, it had nothing to do with complaints from parents. One of our largest sponsors threatened to withdraw funding, because it didn't want to be seen as promoting same-sex relationships."

Muffy glared. "It's all about _money_ with you, isn't it?"

He raised his hands dramatically. "You girls don't understand the constant pressure I face in this position. After I greenlit _Vidiboobies_, I was besieged by calls from parents insisting I change the name, even threatening legal action."

As Muffy's brain worked out a response, Fern unexpectedly approached the desk, apparently fuming mad. "You can tell your sponsor to stick it, Mr. Johnson," she barked. "This is the 21st century, and it's about time you realized that some people can't be happy in a traditional family structure. It's not their fault. It's not because they're bad. It's just their nature. If a girl loves another girl, and you ask her to love a boy instead, you're asking her to give up happiness. I don't expect _you_ to love a man, Mr. Johnson, so why won't you let _me_ love a girl?"

Panting, Fern reflected on the words she had chosen.

Muffy was gawking at her. Sue Ellen, Jenna, and Tabby were gawking at her as well.

Tabby was the first to regain her composure and speak. "When you said that, you were putting yourself in the _place_ of a girl who loves a girl, right?"

Fern remained silent. Muffy had never seen her so quiet since third grade.

"Of _course_ she is," said Sue Ellen. "Fern _likes_ boys. She likes Buster, she likes Alan…"

Muffy turned her attention back to the program director. "The point Fern's trying to make is that…"

"Wait." The single word from Fern's mouth caused the heads of the girls to jerk in her direction.

"What?" said Jenna impatiently.

The poodle girl looked down bashfully. "It's true," she confessed. "I've known it since Monday. I'm in love with a girl." Her voice quivered. "I'm a lesbian."

* * *

To be continued


	30. Muffy's Victory

Craig Johnson, program director of WELD, folded his arms triumphantly. "This," he said, viewing the gaping jaws of the girls, "is exactly the sort of reaction our sponsors were trying to avoid when they asked me to pull the episode. Standing up for the rights of same-sex couples is easy, but when you find out one of your _own_ is gay…well, _look_ at you."

As far as Muffy, Sue Ellen, Tabby, and Jenna were concerned, the old man might as well have been speaking Arabic. Their minds were utterly distracted, chewing over and over on the words _I'm a lesbian_ that had escaped Fern's tongue.

"You're…in love…with a _girl_," stammered Jenna. "_Which_ girl?"

"One of _us?_" asked Sue Ellen.

Fern appeared as if she had swallowed her own stomach. The most she could manage was a vapid "Ummmm…"

"Uh, Fern," said Muffy tentatively, "remember a year ago, when you rescued my space dress, and I told you I loved you as much as it was possible for a girl to love another girl? I hope you didn't take me seriously."

"It's me, isn't it?" said Tabby, her anxiety evident. "You said you've known since Monday. You met _me_ on Monday."

"Well, it's obviously not _me_," said Sue Ellen flippantly. "After all, in the dimension she came from, _I_ was her mortal enemy."

"It's…it's…" Fern began to say.

Her four friends held their breaths.

"Francine?" suggested Muffy.

Fern shook her head.

"Mavis? Prunella? That bunny girl with the striped shirt?"

"The weather girl from Channel 6?" Jenna interjected.

"No," said Fern insistently. "None of those. I'd rather not tell you right here and now."

"That's fine," said Tabby. "We can wait. And just so you won't have any doubts, I'm totally cool with you being a lesbian. We _all_ are. Right, ladies?"

Muffy nodded. "Yeah, it's great. Just great. Statistically, I guess _one_ of us had to be." _Glad it's not me._

Mr. Johnson settled back into his seat. "It's a shame you girls went to so much trouble for nothing," he said, staring at his monitor.

"_Nothing?_" said Muffy, startled. "Now _wait_ a minute…"

"No, _you_ wait a minute," the program director interrupted. "If you and your friends had done a little research, you would have noticed that the performance art episode of _Magic Toolbox_ has been scheduled to air on WELD next weekend, at 11 p.m. on Saturday night."

"Why, you arrogant…" said Muffy sharply. The man's words registered in her brain, and she stopped herself. "Uh, I mean…what?"

* * *

Near the end of Mr. Farrenc's math lecture, Muffy marched proudly into the classroom, followed by Sue Ellen, Fern, and Tabby. "Sorry we're late, everyone," said the braided girl, nonchalantly relaxing into her desk.

"You will have to answ_err_ to ze principal for zis," said the teacher, glowering sternly.

Muffy waved him off. "A small price to pay, considering what we accomplished."

"What _did_ you accomplish?" inquired Francine.

"You should have been there," Muffy boasted. "Seriously, you should have. The program director and I argued back and forth for what felt like hours. He finally agreed to show the episode at 11 p.m. next Saturday."

"Oh, that's great," said Francine, sounding uncertain.

"His first offer was to show it at midnight, when all the kids are asleep," Muffy went on, "but I managed to talk him down."

"The _mademoiselles_ will please be quiet," said Mr. Farrenc. "As I was saying, you solve for _x_ in zis equation by…"

The lecture proceeded without interruption. Sue Ellen, too excited to stop moving, surreptitiously jotted down a note, folded it, and passed it over to Francine. She opened the note and beheld the words, _Fern is gay_.

Francine responded by penciling out a message of her own, and slipping it to Sue Ellen: _So are you._

The symbols on the blackboard meant little to George, with or without his dyslexia. His mind treaded the same path over and over: _What if my idea doesn't work? What if Egregoria wins? What if Beat's already doomed?_

* * *

In Wichita, Kansas, twenty-year-old Andy Schlassenberger was mindlessly surfing the Internet in his parents' basement. _Let's see if YouTube has anything new to serve up_, he said to himself.

"Andrew!" his mother called from above. "You're not looking at pictures of naked women, are you?"

"No, Mom," he yelled back.

_What's this?_ he thought, intrigued by a video with the title, _Paris Hilton Like You've Never Seen Her Before_.

He clicked on the link. The moving image showed Paris in a lavish dress and diamond necklace, sauntering down Sunset Boulevard with her hired paparazzi on each side. _What is this (bleep)?_ he thought. _I've seen this plenty of times._

The soundtrack accompanying the video, however, was entirely novel to his ears. A girl's voice uttered, "I am Victoria, Queen of England and Empress of India. And you, young enchantress, what is _your_ name?"

"I'm Prunella," spoke another girl's voice. "And this is my sister, Rubella."

"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance," said the girl who had identified herself as the Queen.

Andy, disappointed with the download, was nonetheless entranced by the strange British voice. As he listened, an imperceptible change crept over him; within a mere few seconds he had completely forgotten who he was.

"Y-Your Majesty," he said in a full-blooded Scottish brogue. "I hear your voice, but I cannae see ye."

* * *

To be continued


	31. A Diabolical Plan

Visiting the secluded spot where Slinky, Pinky, Dinky, and Twinky habitually met to smoke between classes, Binky observed that two of them appeared to be experiencing considerable discomfort. "What's up, guys?" he greeted them.

"Ugghhh," moaned Pinky, rubbing his cheek. "Somebody ratted us out."

"What?" said Binky in mock horror. "Who was it? I'll clobber 'em!"

"We'll _all_ clobber 'em," said Slinky, "like the principal clobbered _us_."

"The…_principal?_" said Binky, this time genuinely surprised.

"Oohhh, man," said Pinky miserably. "She called us into the detention room and laid into us with a rubber hose."

"A rubber hose?" said Binky. "I thought only the police were allowed to beat people with rubber hoses."

"There's gotta be a U.N. convention against that kind of punishment," said Slinky. "I've never been so humiliated, and I was sold into slavery once."

"There, there," said Dinky, caressing his shoulders. "After we kick the snitcher's butt, we'll go to work on Cameron."

Slinky shook his head fearfully. "If you're gonna take on the principal, you're on your own, man. She's, like, the love child of Hitler and Stalin."

_I never imagined taking pleasure in someone else's suffering would feel so good_, thought Binky. "So, what now, guys?" he said glibly.

"I'll tell you what now," said the defiant Twinky. "We take out our anger on somebody."

"We don't know who the snitcher is," said Dinky, "and Cameron's tough, so that just leaves…_the alien_."

Binky suppressed a gasp.

"She has much to learn about the Earth concept of _pain_," said Twinky.

"The fire ants were a terrific idea," said Slinky, his hand on Binky's upper arm, "so we'll let _you_ choose a new torment for the alien."

"Something _excruciating_," said Pinky with an eager smirk. "Something that'll make fire ants feel like a relaxing massage."

"I'm thinking…I'm thinking," said Binky. _Thinking of a way to make the four of you wish you'd never been cloned, that is._

"I've got it!" he blurted out, and the other bulldog boys thought they saw a light shining above his head. "You know that sidewalk that goes by the hill with the briars at the bottom?"

"You mean the Hill of Tears?" said Slinky. "That place where the city would put up a fence if it cared at all?"

"You got it," said Binky. "At noon today, I'll make sure Sue Ellen is walking along the top of that hill…and the rest is up to you."

* * *

"So it's not just a joke," said Francine, consulting with Muffy near the vending machines. "Fern _is_ a lesbian. She outed herself."

"I heard it with my own two eyes," said Muffy.

"That's unbelievable," said Francine, shaking her head. "Poor Fern."

Her words shocked Muffy. "What do you mean, _poor_ Fern?"

Francine's tone became darkly serious. "Two years ago I had a crush on a girl," she related. "It eventually went away, but I felt like a total freak while it lasted. And now Fern has to face a _lifetime_ of that."

Muffy's reprimand was swift. "Gay people aren't freaks, Francine. And they don't _feel_ like freaks, either, at least not the ones I know. Wyatt's a well-adjusted kid, and his moms are very sociable."

Her friend didn't reply.

"Oooh," said Muffy, peering at her. "Is _that_ why you didn't come to the protest?"

Francine nodded. "I have a gay uncle, and I know they're just regular folks like us, but…but still, the idea of a woman marrying a woman, or a man marrying a man, creeps me out. It seems _unnatural_, like eating steak for breakfast, or standing up when I pee."

The two girls simply stared at each other for half a minute. Finally, Muffy shrugged and walked away.

* * *

"This is Wolf Blitzen with CNN. We've received reports of a strange phenomenon—hundreds of people, having no apparent connection with each other, suddenly speaking with British accents. Many appear to be suffering from personality disorders, such as a man from Tulsa, Oklahoma who claims to be Charles Dickens. Most of their stories share a common element—that they heard the voice of Queen Victoria from their computers."

History teacher Helen Schwartz, taking in the news story with interest, noticed that George was standing nearby, his eyes glued to the television. "Students aren't allowed in the teacher's lounge," she reminded him.

* * *

To be continued


	32. Old School

Woodlake Middle School had no playground to speak of, but numerous benches were available for socializing in the open air. It was a sunny morning recess, and Sue Ellen was taking advantage of an outdoor bench to review her math text and catch up on the items she had missed by coming in late.

Binky strode up to her, glancing suspiciously over his shoulder from time to time. When the cat girl caught sight of him, she asked acerbically, "What do _you_ want?"

He went straight to his point. "Are you familiar with the Hill of Tears?"

She nodded. "Uh-huh. You know, if the city cared at all, they'd put up a fence there."

He spoke with an ominous tone. "At lunchtime today, you'd be wise to stay as far from it as you can," he cautioned her.

"Why?" she inquired.

Binky checked his back one last time. "I'm gonna teach the Fire Ant Brigade a lesson," he said quietly.

He slipped away, leaving Sue Ellen to ponder the warning. On another bench, Arthur and Buster were engaged in a deep intellectual debate.

"I think we should talk to the principal about it," said Arthur.

"I think we should ask Blake about it first," said Buster.

"No, I think we should go to the principal," said Arthur.

"I disagree," said Buster. "I think we should bring it up with Blake first."

"Principal," said Arthur.

"Blake," said Buster.

"Let's flip a coin," said Arthur.

"No way," said Buster. "You'd win."

"His old school's probably saving all his homework in a big box," said Arthur. "The longer he stays here, the more he'll have to do when he goes back."

"Maybe he's _running_ from something at his old school," said Buster. "Maybe there's a _girl_ who likes him."

"Here he comes now," said Arthur.

Blake shuffled up to them, his clothes and sneakers looking even more worn than the previous day. "Hi," he said flatly.

"Sit with us," Buster invited him.

"Okay," said Blake, and he lowered himself onto the bench between the two boys.

They sat in silence. "Well?" Arthur spoke up. "Are you gonna ask him?"

"Ask me what?" said Blake.

Buster cleared his throat and took a puff from his inhaler. "Blake," he said with concern, "Arthur has this crazy idea that you should be attending a different school."

The rat boy merely nodded.

"Was that a 'yes, I understand' nod," asked Buster, "or a 'yes, it's true' nod?"

Blake nodded again. When finished nodding he said, "How'd you know?"

"Lucky guess," replied Arthur. "So, what's so bad about the school where _you_ live?"

"My pa don't like it," said Blake, staring forward. "He says it's got gangs, and drugs, and stupid teachers who don't know nothin'."

"Maybe so," said Arthur, "but it also has your academic records, and I think you need those later in life."

"I don't have a problem with you being here," Buster told Blake. "If I was in your school, I'd want to come here too."

"Buster," said Arthur, "if _all_ the kids from his school come to our school, there won't be enough room."

"Not _all_ of them," said Buster. "The gang members and druggies can stay behind. We don't want them."

"The school system doesn't work that way," Arthur insisted.

"Why not?" asked Buster. "Why can't the bad kids go to one school, and the good kids to another?"

Arthur shrugged. "I'm not sure. It's something in the Constitution about all kids being equal."

Not far from the raging Arthur-Buster debate sat Muffy and George, one relaxing with closed eyes, the other engrossed in a cell phone conversation. "As soon as she starts talking again, call me…I mean, call Muffy," George instructed Mrs. Simon, who stood at the opposite end of the line in Beat's hospital room. "And one other thing—make sure she doesn't watch the news."

Folding up the phone, he passed it back to Muffy. "How's she doing?" the girl asked.

"She's still in a semi-catatonic state," replied George.

"Someone told me they had to restart her heart," said Muffy. "That's _so_ scary."

They were shortly visited by Alan. "Have you heard?" he addressed George. "People all over the country are acting like Victorians. It's like Egregoria's reaching out to them through their computers."

"It's weird," remarked George. "I wonder how she's doing it. Is she still inside of Beat, or has she found a new host?"

* * *

to be continued


	33. The Hill of Tears

As he crept silently into the principal's office, Binky glanced at the clock on the wall. It was twenty minutes to noon.

He carefully laid a sealed envelope at the center of Principal Cameron's desk. Written on the front of envelope in Binky's own hand was the grim message, _To be opened only upon the event of my death_.

While the other students enjoyed their lunches, he used a screwdriver borrowed from the custodian's closet to unfasten the balance beam from its supports. He looked up at the gymnasium clock. Fifteen minutes to noon.

The Hill of Tears stood behind the school library, at the farthest end of the Woodlake campus. He carried the heavy balance beam all the way to the location and concealed it, as well as himself, behind a clump of rhododendrons. He checked his watch. Ten minutes to noon.

_I'm gonna need all of my speed and strength to pull this off_, he thought. _If I screw up, I'm dead. If I succeed, I get to live a little longer._

He waited, crouched in the bushes, not daring to breathe, for the members of the Fire Ant Brigade to appear. He looked down at his watch again. Five minutes to noon. _This reminds me of a movie I watched once_, he mused, _but I can't remember what it was called._

Without warning, a finger touched his shoulder. Startled, he whirled about. _They found me! I'm toast!_

To his relief, it was Francine, with Sue Ellen at her side. "You're about to get yourself killed, aren't you?" said the straight-faced monkey girl.

"Pretty much," said Binky, nodding sheepishly.

"You can't take on four bullies by yourself," said Sue Ellen. "You're gonna need a little help. That's why we're here."

Binky straightened his knees and back. "What can _you_ do?" he asked in a peevish tone. "You've given up fighting. You've become a _girl._"

"Yeah, I suppose I have," said the curly-haired kitten. "But if I don't come to your defense when you're in trouble, that makes me as bad as _you_."

"What were you thinking of doing with the balance beam?" inquired Francine.

"I was hoping to make them fall head-over-heels for me," replied Binky. "I don't know if it'll work, though. The thing's heavier than I thought."

"I have a better idea," said Francine wickedly.

_

* * *

_

_I wonder why George doesn't want Beat to watch the news, _thought Penny Simon, munching on a caffeinated Snickers bar while watching over her daughter's bed_._

Confident that Beat was in no immediate danger, she wandered into the hospital corridor and into the next room, where lay a boy who was recovering from an appendectomy. A TV dangled from the ceiling, and on the screen was Wolf Blitzen. "Experts from the CDCP are baffled by the bizarre mass delusion that has infected more than forty thousand Americans. Reports are also coming in from Canada, Australia, and Europe, indicating that Queen Victoria's Syndrome, as it has come to be called, is a worldwide phenomenon."

_Well, that's certainly frightening_, thought Mrs. Simon. _And it must be what George doesn't want Beat to hear. But wouldn't she already know? It's her doing, isn't it?_

She turned to exit the room, and saw Beat standing in the doorway, leaning weakly against the frame. "Oh, my God," she blurted out.

"Ah, _there_ you are, my loyal subject," said the girl with a wry smile. "Come, let us administer justice to the traitors who sought my life."

The sight of her daughter standing and speaking filled her not with joy, but with burning anger. "_You_," she spat. "Leave her alone! _Get out!_"

Beat shook her head glumly. "Not you, too. Has _everyone_ turned against me? Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown, indeed."

_

* * *

_

_Noon. _Binky paced back and forth on the edge of the Hill of Tears, expecting the arrival of his four look-alikes, who promptly arrived. "Yo, Binky," Twinky hailed him. "I see you, but I don't see the alien."

"What's the deal?" asked Slinky. "Where is she? You said she'd be here."

Binky made a pathetic face. "I'm sorry, guys, I really am. I did my best to convince her to come, but after the fire ant incident, I guess she doesn't trust me anymore."

"Aww, man," groaned Pinky.

"You failed us, dude," said Dinky, glowering. "You know what the penalty for failure is."

Binky shrugged. "Actually, I don't."

"It's death," said Dinky. "But we'll give you another chance, because you're cool."

"Okay, guys," said Binky, motioning for the bullies to draw closer. "She's obviously not gonna let us catch her at the Hill of Tears, so we need a new plan. Let's huddle."

The five bulldog boys did so, almost literally putting their heads together. Binky, unnoticed by the others, stuck out his hand and raised his thumb.

It was the cue for Francine and Sue Ellen to attack. Each girl seized tightly one end of the balance beam, hoisted it upward, leaped out of the bushes, and charged at full speed in the direction of the boys, screaming, "TAWANDAAAAA!"

Binky, Slinky, Pinky, Dinky, and Twinky perked up their ears at the sound. All they could see was a ten-foot beam sweeping towards them like a tidal wave. It was too late to move.

Francine, Sue Ellen, and the balance beam plowed into them with great force. Their feet flew from the ground, and below them there was only air, gravity, and the briars growing along the side of the Hill of Tears. Down they plummeted, not stopping until they collided with the dirt and started to roll. As they tumbled helplessly into the merciless thorns, Francine and Sue Ellen nearly split their skins from laughing.

Binky and his hapless companions moaned as they plucked the briars from their ripped clothes and bruished flesh. "Those girls are _so_ gonna die," grumbled Dinky. "Did anybody get a good look at their faces?"

"Not me," said Pinky. "It all happened too fast."

"I'm mad now," said Binky, brushing off his pants. "I'm _really_ mad."

"My sentiments exactly," said Slinky. "Our first order of business is to find out who did this to us, and _massacre_ them."

"Our first order of business," said Twinky painfully, "is iodine and Band-Aids."

Binky glanced up the hill in time to watch the girls sneak away. _This has gotta be the smartest thing I've ever done_, he thought. _Not only did we get our revenge on those punks, but now they believe I'm on their side!_

* * *

To be continued


	34. The Tears of the Queen

"She's up and about, and talking," said Mrs. Simon, keeping a corner of her eye on her gown-clad daughter. "She's still possessed by Queen Victoria."

On the other end, George spoke while Muffy listened with interest. "If my idea worked, then her voice should have no power," said the young moose.

"What do you mean, no power?" the aardvark woman whispered, fearful that Beat would overhear their phone conversation. "If you believe CNN, _thousands_ of people are under her influence."

"Yes," said George as the bell rang to signal the end of lunch, "but _she_ doesn't know that."

There was a brief silence. "I don't understand," said Mrs. Simon.

"Then I'll explain," said George. "Last night before going to bed, I digitized the recording of Prunella's interview, attached it to a video of Paris Hilton, and posted it on YouTube. I figured there had to be a limit to how many people Egregoria can control, so if enough people downloaded the video and listened to the recording, she'd eventually reach her maximum."

A gratified smile appeared on Mrs. Simon's face. "That was clever, George. Extremely risky, but clever. It must have worked, because her voice is having no effect on me or the hospital staff."

"That's good to know," said George. "Now that the playing field is even, the next step is to persuade Egregoria to get out of Beat's body. If we're really lucky, Beat's personality will reassert itself and make our job easier."

"Leave that to me," said Mrs. Simon.

Beat sauntered regally toward her as she put down the phone. "What, pray tell, was that about?" the girl asked.

"None of your business," was Mrs. Simon's curt reply.

"I am the Queen," said Beat sternly. "_Everything_ is my business. I demand that you tell me. I also demand that you fetch me some proper clothes. This gown is far too revealing."

"You," said her mother with a patronizing glare, "are in no position to make demands. You have no subjects. You have no friends. You are utterly alone."

Beat shook her head. "You'll soon see how wrong you are. My experience tells me that I need merely speak, and those who listen begin to act like proper citizens of the Empire."

"Go ahead," said Mrs. Simon. "Talk until you're blue. You won't convert me. You won't convert _anyone_."

* * *

Principal Cameron did not look happy. She looked so unhappy, in fact, that Arthur began to worry that _he_ would be punished for reporting his concerns about Blake Robinson.

"You did the right thing by coming to me," said the rat woman, one eye on Arthur and one eye on the computer screen. "Blake does _not_ belong in this school. He should be attending Bellisario Middle School, out by the old uranium mill. I can't blame his father for wanting to send him somewhere else, but still, the rules are the rules."

Arthur simply nodded.

"But you know that," the principal went on, "because you used to be a student body president, and you have a sense of how the system operates." She leaned back in her chair. "I called Blake's father. You may be interested in some of the things he told me. He was a technician back in the day, but after the mill closed down, he couldn't find another job in his field. He took a number of temporary positions, but they didn't pay well. He's been unemployed for the last four months, and spends most of the day looking for work."

Puzzlement seemed to befog Arthur's glasses. "But…he comes by every day at seven to pick up Blake," he observed. "If he's unemployed, he should be able to come at _any_ time."

"That occurred to me as well," said Cameron. "I asked him about it. He said he wanted to keep Blake away from the Bellisario kids, and give him a chance to make friends in a _nice_ neighborhood."

"He means _us_, right?" said Arthur.

"Yes," said the principal. "So, Arthur Read, what would _you_ do if you were me?"

The boy considered her question carefully. "I guess there isn't much you _can_ do. He could go to a magnet school if he had really good grades, but he doesn't. And if you made an exception for him, you'd have to make exceptions for _everyone_."

"Exactly," she said with a satisfied grin. "You'd make a good principal."

"Still, it's kinda sad," said Arthur. "I mean, for Blake to go back to his old school, with the gangs and all…it won't be good for him."

"That's not our problem," said Cameron. "Putting a rotten apple in a basket full of fresh ones is not gonna turn the rotten apple fresh, Arthur. I'm sure even the parents of the _worst_ kids at Bellisario think the same way Mr. Robinson does—'If only my boy could attend Woodlake Middle School, there'd be hope for him.'"

* * *

The X-ray technician had grown weary of Beat's ranting. "I am Queen Victoria! Why do you not respect my authority? Why do you not obey?"

"Little girl," she said peevishly, "unless you shut up _right now_, I'll personally carry you back to your bed and strap you in."

Beat sighed dejectedly. "No one believes me," she complained to Mrs. Simon, who stood nearby. "To them I'm nothing but a freakish girl with long ears, the sort of creature you might expect to see in Barnum and Bailey's sideshow."

"Starting to doubt yourself, are you?" said her mother hopefully.

"Never!" she snapped. "I'm simply in the wrong country. I shall go to England, where the people will give me the honor that is my due."

"Good luck with that," said Mrs. Simon facetiously. "England is governed by your great-great-granddaughter, Queen Elizabeth II, and by the prime minister, Gordon Brown."

"Indeed," said Beat, astonished. "So the royal line remains unbroken. The impostor did _not_ prevail."

"For what it's worth, yes," said her mother. "The monarchy no longer wields the same political might it did in your day. In fact, there are many, including myself and Roger, who would like to see it abolished."

Beat gasped with indignation. "No! To suggest such a thing is treason!"

"And yet we keep our heads," said Mrs. Simon. "Don't forget, Majesty, you've been dead for more than a hundred years."

Crestfallen, Beat sat down on the edge of an examination table. "It would seem England has soldiered on without me," she mused.

"There's a simple explanation," said the aardvark woman. "The woman you call 'the impostor' was the _real_ Queen, and you are but an echo of her."

"How can that be?" asked Beat, her eyes soaked with tears. "I _know_ I'm the Queen. I know every detail of my life. I can quote any one of my public addresses, word for word."

"Really," said Mrs. Simon, kneeling in front of her. "Why would the Queen go to the trouble of memorizing all her speeches?"

"Who am I, then," said Beat softly, "if not the Queen?"

Her mother caressed her cheek to remove the tears. "You're my daughter," she stated. "If that's not good enough for you, you can go back to whatever dimension you came from."

Beat started to sob freely. "I…I cannot bear the thought…"

Mrs. Simon recognized this as a sign that the Queen needed a hug. She wrapped her arms around the weeping girl. "I love you, dear," she whispered into her daughter's rabbit ear. "Come back to me."

Beat made no response, but only shed more tears.

A few minutes passed.

She looked up and sniffled. "M-Mum?"

* * *

To be continued


	35. Say Hello to My Little Friend

Alan and Prunella marveled at the news George had delivered to them. "That's the craziest idea I've ever heard," remarked Alan. "By putting her voice on the Internet, you could've easily handed her the world. And yet it worked."

George shrugged. "I had to do _something_. Otherwise, when Egregoria came back, her first act would've been to put us on trial for attempted assassination."

"The important thing is, Beat's okay," said Prunella. "And with any luck, that's the last we'll ever see of Egregoria."

"Don't jinx it, Prunella," Alan cautioned her.

They went their ways to their separate classes, George to room 218 for Mrs. Schwartz's history lesson. The woman had written _General Sherman's March_ on the blackboard, but her first words to the assembled students had nothing to do with the Civil War: "Blake Robinson, I'd like you to go to the principal's office."

The rat boy's eyes widened. "Why?" he inquired.

"Because," answered the teacher, "you shouldn't be here."

The kids muttered to each other, unsure of whether Mrs. Schwartz's statement was meant to be taken literally or figuratively. Buster, however, knew immediately what was happening. Turning to the boy in the next desk over, he said quietly, "Arthur…you didn't…"

His friend nodded seriously. "I'm sorry, Buster."

"How could you _do_ that?" the young rabbit snapped loudly at Arthur.

"Quiet, please," said Mrs. Schwartz, preparing to call the roll. "Binky Barnes?"

"Yo," said Binky, as the other children watched Blake exit the classroom with his nose down.

"Buster Baxter?"

"Not here!" exclaimed Buster. Leaping to his feet, he rushed for the door in pursuit of Blake.

He overtook the glum-looking boy in the center court. "Hold up," he called out.

Blake stopped, apparently surprised at the attention that was being paid to him.

"This just isn't fair," protested Buster. "You shouldn't have to go back to that awful gang school."

"It's okay," said Blake, somewhat indifferently.

"No, it's _not_ okay," said Buster. "If I was in charge, I'd make sure _every_ kid gets to go to a good school." He handed a small slip of paper to the boy. "Here's my E-mail address. Stay in touch."

"Okay," said Blake with a slight smile. "I guess you're my new homie."

"Yeah." Buster grinned vapidly. "Homie."

They parted. Blake resumed his march of no return, while Buster hurried back to the history lecture. Rather than reoccupy his old desk next to Arthur's, he chose a desk on the other end of the room, near where Binky and Van sat.

* * *

"Hey, Beat," said Muffy, gabbing into her cell phone as she left school for the day. "How are you holding up?"

"Couldn't be better," she heard the rabbit-aardvark girl reply. "I'm still under observation, but I should be out of here by tomorrow morning."

Less lucky than Muffy was Binky, who was intercepted by the principal on his way out. "Please come to my office, Mr. Barnes," she said pitilessly.

Relations remained cool between Arthur and Buster. "Look, I'm sorry," Arthur tried to explain. "The principal and I talked for a long time, and we both agreed this will be better for Blake in the long run."

"I don't wanna talk about it," grumbled Buster.

Fern and Tabby, meanwhile, lingered behind in their empty home room. "I need an answer, Fern," said Tabby, her book bag hanging heavily from her shoulder. "If I'm the girl you're in love with, I've got to know."

The poodle girl appeared to shrink before her eyes. "Tabby…" she said inconclusively.

"What are you afraid of?" Tabby pressed her. "You've already let the cat out of the bag. Are you afraid your friends will think less of you? Are you afraid of your own feelings? Are you afraid I won't _return_ your feelings?"

Fern's response was an almost imperceptible nod.

"I take that as a yes," said Tabby, smiling elatedly. "And you have nothing to fear, Fern. I _do_ return your feelings."

The poodle girl gazed at her with bright eyes. "I _am_ in love with you, Tabby," she admitted. "And it doesn't feel weird at all. It's, like, the most natural thing in the world."

"Okay," said Tabby hesitantly. "I love you, and you love me. But before we go any further with this, there's something I need to tell you about myself."

"What?" said Fern, impatient to plant a kiss on her friend's lips.

Tabby lowered her eyes. "Now it's _my_ turn to be embarrassed," she said, her words nearly inaudible.

_Let's just get on with it before I start having doubts_, thought Fern.

"The _good_ news is," said Tabby, her eyes connecting with Fern's, "you're not a lesbian after all."

"I'm _not?_" Fern blurted out.

Tabby's earnest stare indicated an affirmative response.

"But…you're a girl, and I'm in love with you," Fern pointed out. "How does that make me _not_ a lesbian?"

"I…I…" A two-ton weight appeared to be dangling from Tabby's tongue.

"Just spit it out," Fern urged her.

"I'm transgendered," she finally confessed.

"Which means…" said Fern, although she had an inkling of the implications.

"I'm physically male," said Tabby, "but I consider myself a girl. I've been living as a girl for two years now."

Fern's brain reeled.

_She's a boy. She's a boy._

_She's a boy._

_A boy._

"Excuse me," said Fern. She suddenly bolted for the classroom exit.

"Fern…?" Tabby yelled after her.

Fern was too far away to hear. After making a mad dash for the girls' room, she fell to her knees, stuck her head over the toilet, and vomited out her lunch.

* * *

In the detention room, Principal Cameron drew an envelope from inside her handbag. "I read your confession," she told Binky, who sat helplessly before her. "So _you_ were the mastermind behind the fire ant attack. You've been lying to me all this time."

"Oh, man," the boy groaned. "You're only supposed to read that if I'm _dead_."

"You _are_ dead, Binky Barnes." The next thing she took from her bag was a piece of rubber hose. "Say hello to my little friend."

* * *

To be continued in Arthur Goes Sixth II


End file.
